Many Roads
by Lily Ann
Summary: Out of the asylum and struggling, Buffy Summers takes a long, strange detour. BS.
1. Silent Into Camelot

Title: Many Roads

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  


Summary: Out of the mental institution and struggling, Buffy Summers of Los Angeles takes a long, strange detour that just might lead to love. AU.

  
  
  
  


Part 1_: _Silent Into Camelot__

  
  


"You have to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they _become?"_

_—_Terry Pratchett__

  
  


The third time, there was no warning. Her death arrived in a moment of perfect clarity_, _witnessed only by alley rats and an unusually full moon. A hunter's moon, Angel called it. Perfect for tracking fleet-footed demons through the matrix of a strange city. Where was she that week? Milwaukee? Tucson? As her blood pooled on the dirty asphalt, she decided that it didn't really matter. Not when the night was fading from black, funneling into gray, and only a rattle of breath held her to life. The pain, so bright and astonishing at first, was merely humming along her nerve endings like an old songshe was hearing for the last time.__

  


_Wish I could stay._ Leaving was hard, she thought, with fading, fond attachment for all the trappings she'd miss. Ice cream,leather boots_, _dancing. A good slay. _American Idol._ Pumpkins. She liked pumpkins. But, those were just things to say goodbye to, in the end. At her mother's funeral, the minister said that people are born into the world with nothing and leave the same way. He was right. All you could hope for was not to go trailing regret. Buffy had regret, but, also, a special knowledge of heaven. She'd been to that cauldron of souls where tomorrow didn't matter and forgiveness waited, too.She was not afraid of judgement. _Let me rest in peace._

  


The alley was as dark as a cave, its bright, yawning mouth miles and miles away from where she lay in a thin patch of moonlight, the third claw of the Balzer demon that...ended...her still embedded deep in her belly. Twisted in the flesh that would never bear a child or grow spotted with age. Draining her life away and fanning it across the cement. This was who she was, then. How she'd die. _Alone. _No epic battle this time, no sacrifice. No weeping friends to grieve her on her way. Just this silent passage, alone and uncomforted. Gored by a creature that wasn't particularly violent, except when cornered, it seemed. Balzers looked like big hedgehogs. Smelled rather like cabbage and snacked on pilfered house pets. After halting a doggie abduction, Buffy decided the perp needed a smack down and some good grooming tips. Chasing it seemed like a good idea. Alas, not so much. The last line in her chronicle would note how she, the oldest living slayer, expired protecting the poodle population of America. _Giles, feel free to tweak that._

  


When the demon stabbed her, it seemed just as surprised as she. Before it took off, their eyes met for just a second, clashed in ancient understanding. _Slayer, slay-ee. This is who we are, then. This is who we are. _For all her battles, it was shockingly simple_, _this concept of two. No grand plan this time, no march to war. No time to say goodbye_. _Sometimes, it was the only way. You were gone too soon, had to skip the big bon voyage_. _Couldn't even have the basics: touch, love, and end.Her mom and Tara and Anya, all gone in a heartbeat_. _Others chose their time, like Spike_, _just raced death to the final reckoning.Lived until they died.

  


_William, how I wish I'd held onto you. _

  


How many years had he been gone? Two? Three? She'd counted the days at first, until their sameness blended together. Didn't eat, didn't sleep. Not until Willow put away the kid gloves, admonished her mercilessly. _You're killing yourself, Buffy. Would he want that? _No, Spike wanted her to be stronger than she could be, braver than she was. That was the way he lived. He expected no less of her.Thus, began her self-imposed exile to all the far-flung cities of the world, places she might have seen with him, had things gone differently. She killed exotic demons in Africa, slayed vampires galore in the Balkans. Found slayers in China. He was with her every step of the way, a breath of cigarette smoke on the wind when she was lonely or afraid, whispering in that rough-sweet voice. _Courage, Slayer. That's a good girl. _Or, _bloody get on with it!_ Both had the desired effect. Buffy survived. Funny, she'd finally landed in America again, was working her way back toward Los Angeles when she hit this little, uh, snag. Pun intended.__

  


_Oh. _The stars were winking out. A roar like the sea surf pounded in her ears. Buffy steeled herself, remembered a time when she was just as drowsy, just as warm. It was during that last year of Spike's life. She'd go down to the basement, her step light and assured. Going where others feared to tread. He was recently dechipped. She was falling in love. 

  


He'd be shirtless, of course, usually reading a book or smoking. She'd make him put one on, ignoring his smirk that said he thought her excuse about rampant underage girls and their innocent eyes was pretty flimsy. What was she supposed to say? _Spike, your skin is just a big ball of tempting? _Once he was covered, she'd flop across his bed on her belly, dig through the pile of reading material he'd acquired from somewhere. Spike always found his way to words, one way or another. They were his gift.

  


"You've got a lot of books."

  


Shrug. "Fills the hours."

  


She'd flip through a volume, kicking her feet in the air. Free, for a little while, of the hormone brigade and their constant bickering over cereal, sleeping arrangements and cramps. At first she'd been shocked. _Spike was reading poetry. _But it kind of fit. He was a lot like what he read. Tragic and over-the-top. Romantic, by turns. She made many trips to the basement over the course of weeks, discovered what she liked or didn't. Rediscovered beauty, even amid the ugliness of the First Evil's onslaught. Sometimes fell asleep reading Swinburne or Byron or Tennyson.

  


_And when the moon was overhead,_

_Came two young lovers lately wed;_

_"I am half-sick of shadows," said_

_ The Lady of Shalott._

  


She'd wake to find him watching her, all fathomless blue eyes and exquisite, angular lines, and think nothing of curling a little closer. She was falling in love. He was different with a soul. They were strange attractors, had a history they shouldn't have been able to overcome. Yet, there he was. Flourishing in her basement like some dark flower. _How did we get here, my old enemy?_ She refused to entertain the thought that he was leaving her, even then.__

  


_"Tirra-lirra," by the river_

_ Sang Sir Lancelot._

  


His voice haunted her. How it swooped and darted, caught words like a net and cast them back beautiful. _Spike. _He gave her beauty before he died. Of course, she would think of him, at the end_,_ on the brink of another discovery, like the richness of his reading voice or the dark rush of power that was her Call; Angel's first sweet kiss that bordered on a secret and Willow's extraordinary talent; finding Giles, pulling back that baby blanket and seeing Dawn's newborn face, tiny and pinched and perfect. These were her voyages_._

  


_Over, now_. Thy will be done, she vowed. Not coming back this time.__

  


You're welcome, world_._

  


With the last effort of her life, Buffy thought of her sister. Beautiful, adventurous Dawn, the one thing she did right. Buffy blessed her in her heart, prayed she'd find the right road. The one that led to love and laughter and self. _For God's sake, Dawnie, follow your heart. Even if you're afraid. I learned too late that love will take care of that, in the end. It will make you less afraid. _

  


_Love you, brat. I'll see you in starlight._

Buffy's eyes closed for the last time, then, and her break from the world was painless, a final gathering of storm clouds that obscured the full, full moon. __

  
  


_****************************************************************************_

And when she crossed, the weather cleared for another girl, in another place. Across a sea of bitter experience, through the doorway of death, and beyond, a moment spun crazily and gave birth to that rare gift. _Another chance._

  


_****************************************************************************_

Her mother's voice came first, like the sun cutting through fog, followed by shapes and light. Finally, awareness. She was Buffy Summers, a girl with eyes and ears and a beating heart. Fingers and toes that tingled–no, _stung–_like a thousand needles were picking her. _Oh fuck oh._

She was in hell. No doubt about it.

It consisted of a white, white room shot through with drab olive, scratchy institutional sheets and a bevy of doctors peering at her like she was some exotic butterfly pinned on a board. Dissecting her with their beady, probing eyes_. _It was all very X-files. The truth was out there, but no one seemed interested in anything except staring at her. Her mother and father just hovered around the edges of the room, looking panicked and ecstatic.

"What?" she finally yelled, and jerked in surprise when her voice cracked with disuse.

That's when they told her.

In a coma for months, they said. Delusional for years before that. Popping in and out of reality. Flying over the cuckoo's nest for..._seven years?_

She didn't believe it. "Get out of town and take a bus!"__

There was a general murmur among the white coats. "Remarkable...extraordinary...run some more tests."

Um, no. Buffy and tests unmixy. "I'd like to go home, now." She threw back the covers_, _caused a flurry.__

Selective amnesia, they whispered to her parents. An unusual case.

_Whatever_. She really, really wanted something to eat. And a nightie without air conditioning. The thing she had on was a fashion violation, first class. "Uh, I hate to interrupt the Freud moment you fellas have going, but could I get a pizza?" __

Apparently not. Two hours later she was still hungry and annoyed. At least they were keeping their straitjackets to themselves and the crowd had dwindled down to just one young doctor with a clipboard and compassionate manner. Throwing ice chips and red Jell-O really did clear the room fast_. _Even her parents had fled to the Cafeteria. They were probably having cheesecake. Celebrating non-catatonic Buffy in style. _Nope, not bitter at all._

"Buffy, do you remember anything?" Clipboard had her pen poised to record whatever startling revelation Buffy came up with. Or just mark her off as still nuts, she supposed. She didn't feel like she'd just returned from an extended climb up the crazy tree. More like she'd been traveling...somewhere...and just returned. There _were _things she recalled, but not in their full color. Impressions, yes. Sensations. But rarely an image she could hold to. They flitted across her mind too fast.__

Clipboard wasn't going away, though. Better her than the rest of the Ben Casey squad. _Here goes nothing._ "I remember sunrise from a high place. Wind in my hair. A cellar, no, a cavern filled with light.Leather and tweed. Motherwort." She picked at the sheet. "And I remember a word."

"Go on." Clipboard looked intrigued, was probably mentally ticking over all the fire and brimstone in Buffy's file, wondering what phrase it could be. Hellmouth? Apocalypse? Possession? Apparently, during periods of lucidity she'd told people she was Xena or something. __

Buffy took a deep breath. After this, they'd probably keep her forever, get all happy with the shock therapy_._

"Shirty. The word is shirty." She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "And I have no idea what the fuck it means."__

_TBC_


	2. Normal Again

Title: Many Roads

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  
  
  
  


Many Roads

by Lily Ann

  
  
  


Chapter 2: Normal Again

  
  


I've been talking in my sleep

Pretty soon they'll come to get me

Yeah, they're taking me away—Matchbox 20

  
  
  


She had two good years before the dreams started. 

  


Years filled with new friends and new experiences. Years of making up for lost time. She took many steps forward, away from the mystery of her awakening. Onto more solid ground, or so it seemed. She earned a G.E.D during that lull. Got her driver's licence, found a job. Borrowed money for a tiny apartment. Had her first lover. 

  


And put her habitual restlessness down to nerves. Just...nerves.

  


When she sat up late at night, a cigarette between her fingers, she blamed simple insomnia. After so many years of inactivity, of course her body would reject rest. If she opened a door and felt time rushing toward her, it was just residual loopy vibes. Burnt-on, stuck-on craziness from the institution years, bleeding into her days and nights now that she was normal again. Her mother said she'd raved about portholes, in her madness. How to open them, where they led. 

  


Seized by irrational fear, she spent a week trying to avoid doors entirely. Which was impossible, of course, and attracted a lot of attention. 

  


"Going for a world record," she told everyone who raised an eyebrow. "Most windows crawled through in a single day."

  


Joyce Summers wasn't easily fooled, though. _"_Are you sure you're alright, honey?" She asked this often, a worry line forming between her brows. 

  


And Buffy would turn a bright face to the question. Shimmy around the issue. "Just fine, Mom. Don't call the paddy wagon yet. Okay?"

  


If they knew, they'd send her back. And that terrified her more than anything, the idea of living behind walls, buried alive in a white-washed room. Life had taken her down strange avenues before. She could deal with the strangeness gripping her life, _was _dealing quite well.

  


And then the dreams started.

  


Wildly colorful, surreal, occasionally dark as pitch, they were dominated by the most unbearable sense of loss. She'd wake up twisted in the sheets, her face wet, unable to remember exactly what had troubled her so, yet filled with a teary ache that didn't recede for hours. Other times, she'd surface warm and throbbing with desire, haunted by the slide of vanished hands, candle wax and copper. This, she didn't understand. Her one sexual experience had been less than memorable, fumbling and awkward. No man had ever made stars fall behind her eyes. Yet, in sleep, her body remembered passion, arched into a shadow lover's hands, gripped him between her thighs as easily as she breathed or sang. 

And, always, there was that tower, her high place. Amaranth lights and a bitter rose dawn. Departing, forever, into dream and silence. Occasionally, a face swam up out of the murky depths, flashed by like grainy old film footage. Usually, it was a young girl, dark and elfin-faced. Wholly unlike Buffy herself.

In May, Buffy dreamed of falling. 

Just before Labor day, she followed a ghost for fifteen blocks.

She had just left the library, lugging a bag full of books on psychology and mental illness, texts that might explain her to herself. Slogging along, shoulders already aching, she happened to glance across the teeming street. Perhaps, it was the girl's bright hair that caught her attention. It was redder than apples, aflame in the late afternoon sun. Or her manner, as bright and uncultivated as a wildflower. For whatever reason, she drew Buffy's eye. Standing in a crowd, waiting to cross, she was dwarfed by the other pedestrians, Businessmen, mostly, heading home. None of them paid her the least bit of attention.

Which was fine. The redhead's nose was buried deep in a book, oblivious to the chaos of downtown.

Buffy couldn't look away. That pose tugged at her consciousness, pulled her forward when the small crowd moved on. Set her on the trail of a complete stranger for no other reason than she _knew_ it, knew _her,_ from somewhere, but couldn't quite push the memory into place. 

Block after block passed, with Buffy dodging and weaving to keep up. The shadows lengthened. Evening fell. The girl never turned to check behind. Not once. Which was fine, too. Buffy didn't need a stalking charge added to her colorful mental history. _Subject: Buffy Summers. Status: Readmitted to booby hatch after following random red-haired person like a nutty Nancy Drew. Prognosis: Disturbing._

Yet, she kept on. Followed until the young woman stepped between two passerby and...disappeared, leaving Buffy standing in the middle of the sidewalk, blinking in confusion. She searched behind parked cars, peeked down alleys, and looked in the row of stores that lined the side street where her pursuit came to such an abrupt end. Nothing. No bookish girl with gamine features materialized in the Laundromat or at the newsstand. She wasn't having a slice of pepperoni at _Sbarro._

Frustrated, Buffy marched into the last shop in the row and looked around. _An occult bookstore. Oh, joy._ She avoided spooky places, as a rule. Her life was weirder than anything on the shelves.

"Did a girl just come in here?" She approached the older lady perched behind the counter. Greying and portly, she seemed more concerned with her Solitaire game than selling books. 

"Just a minute, hon." She slapped down her last card. 

Buffy waited patiently, tried not to tap her feet. Sneezed a couple of times on the dust motes dancing in the air like torn bits of fairy wing. A fine layer of grey covered every surface her gaze alighted on. No wonder. From what she could see, the place was huge and rambling, with shelves more suited to members of the NBA than normal-sized folks. There were ladders, but they looked rather rickety.

"Damn cards." The cashier finally shuffled them into a drawer and focused on Buffy. 'What was it you needed, dearie? Tarot cards? Astrology? Not love spells, I'd wager. Pretty girl like you."

"No, none of that. Just tell me...has anyone but me been through here in, say, the last ten minutes?"

The woman–_Ruth_, her name tag declared–barked out a laugh. "You're too precious for words. Sweetie, no one has been in here all _day_." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'll tell you a little secret, hon. Mr. Giles doesn't do a booming business in this part of town. His Magic shop, now, that brings a mint. Opened it up in Philly last April, he did." She looked around a little sadly. "Don't know why he keeps this place open. Nostalgia, I guess."

"Mr. Giles? Is he the owner?" Buffy was surprised. It wasn't a name she would have associated with magic and supernatural stuff. It was so _librarian._

Ruth nodded. " A good sort of man. His Ms. Jenkins ran the store for awhile, after the two of them parted ways, but she lost interest. Moved on to bigger and better things, I suppose. Ambitious girl, she was. And quite a bit younger."

Buffy smiled politely. It was very dark outside, by then, and the spreading gloom made the cavernous store seem a little chilly and a lot creepy. "That's too bad. Very _Passions._ I'd love to hear more. We'll get together, have a latte...someday." She turned to the door. "But, right now I have to book. Pun intended."

Fate, though, had other ideas.

Just as she was ready to step out into the night, a clap of thunder rent the sky, releasing a torrent of rain in wide, grey sheets.

"Balls," Buffy muttered.

Ruth chuckled and retrieved her cards. "Might want to wait it out. Feel free to browse." She gestured at the stacks. "We don't close until eight."

That was the last thing Buffy wanted to do, but she didn't want to be rude, either. Dutifully wandering into the rows, she carefully skirted the shadowy sections. Still, her heart leaped when a fat, black cat suddenly crawled out from under the parapsychology shelf. It was all a little too _Sabrina _for her stressed nerves.

Most of the titles hit a little too close to home: _How to Hunt Ghosts_, _Encyclopedia of Superstition. Unicorns and Other Delusions. _There were books on shamanism, mysticism and the dark arts. Mythology, spells and Earth lore. Dreams. Buffy avoided all of these, moved off to a remainder bin full of paperbacks, mostly fiction with lurid covers and corny titles. 

Digging through the basket out of boredom, Buffy didn't expect her life to change forever.

She found it at the very bottom, under some secondhand Anne Rice. A medium-thick volume with an ill-painted purple cover that depicted a scene she'd watched many times, in grabs and glimpses. A young girl, dark and fair, framed against a blooming lilac sky. Shot through with green and pink scribbles of light, the canvas of dawn seemed too large for such a tiny person. The tower on which she stood resembled little more than a child's stack of blocks. The people gathered at its base were just painted black dots.

_Aurora, Tales of the Key #_25: _Glory's Daughter._

Heart in her throat, Buffy dug frantically through the bin, but there was just that one book, a strange clue in an unlikely place. She didn't know how or why, but that was her high place, her bitter rose dawn. The sweet-faced girl who was a fixture of her dreamscape.

She bought the book and hurried toward home. Halfway there, she paused before a construction site.

"What are they building, here?" She asked a workman cleaning up.

"Tearing down is what they're doing, miss. A hotel, empty for years."

Buffy reached deep down inside herself, came up with a word. "Is...is it the Hyperion?"

"Why, yes. How do you know about that old place? Young thing like you? Noone's stayed there since the trouble back in ought '50 or so."

"I...I just know. I think I might have known people here."

"Impossible. Nothing but ghosts in the old Hyperion. Ghosts and crumbling walls."

She read Aurora's story that night, devoured it in less than two hours. By turns dark and hopeful, it was a tale of a girl born from mist to open the doors between worlds. Not well written, by any standards, it was still wildly creative, sentimental. Sweet. Words jumped out at Buffy like beacons. Hell Goddess, minion, ritual. End of days.

When she finally fell asleep and dreamed, everything was different, clearer. Like a door in her mind had squeaked opened, just a crack, letting some light into the dark corners.

********************************************************************

_She approached the gravestone quietly and knelt between the two silent figures. It was situated on a hill that, in daylight, must have bordered on blue sky_ _and boasted a view of the city._ _At night, though_, _there were meteor showers to enjoy, and stars at play, chasing each other across the sky_. _Constellations moving across time like these men cycled through her life_. _Made it better, longer, than it ever would have been. How strange to sit with them and mourn a life passed, but not yet lived. She was herself, but not. Looking back in hindsight and ahead to the future, all at once_. _Taking notes for another life._

BUFFY SUMMERS

1980-2004

JOY SHE HAS FOUND

_Twenty-four. Oh, very young._

_"I never thought she'd go." The slim, silver man wiped at his eyes._

_"I thought it everyday," countered the more stoic, darker one. "It haunted me."_

_"Shoe polish haunts you. Any excuse to brood, eh, Angelus?"_

_"Shut up."_

_"Make me."_

_Buffy felt strangely at peace with the bickering. Content on this starry hill, situated between these darkly beautiful creatures._

_"We shouldn't fight here."_

_"Why the bloody hell not? We fought at both of her funerals, the burial and the wake. We fought on the way up here. We'll probably fight on the way back. 'Sides, she liked a good dust up."_

_"She liked kicking your ass."_

_"Yeah," The pale one smiled fondly. "Good times, yeah. Good times." He swallowed. "Promise me something, eh?"_

_"Why should I?"_

_"Cause you owe me, wanker. For all that amulet shit. Your pretty jewelry made me self-barbecue, remember? Would have been with her, but for the whole temporarily dead gig that was your fault."_

_"Okay, fine. What is it?"_

_"I imagine Dawn'll want that spot." He nodded to the left. "When it happens for me, bury what you can gather on her right, okay? 'S the only place I ever did any real good."_

_The solemn, dark man bit his lip, considering. "Flip you for it?"_

_****************************************************************_

Buffy awoke with a jerk, knocking her book and several pillows to the floor. The vivid dream was still with her as she made her way into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Swallowed pills. Saw how haggard she looked in the harsh bathroom lightbut couldn't bring herself to care. Making her way back to the bedroom, she noted the time display on her alarm clock. Still night. The witching hour, to be exact. 

But there would be no more sleep for her.

Grabbing her sketchbook, Buffy scratched out a few lines that could have been a hill, with gamboling stars above. For once, the images from her dream hadn't immediately slipped from her mind, elusive as the fallen leaves she chased as a little girl. In more innocent times. Her pen began to move faster. She wasn't a good artist, had never had any formal training, but Buffy enjoyed drawing because it was so normal an activity, a center of calm in her chaotic world.

At least, until that midnight.

She finished the sketch of that burial hill, added three figures kneeling in the grass. Tore it loose from the pad and immediately began another. And another, moving on to other fragmented pieces of memory. The tower, the girl. _Aurora. _Her ghost from the street corner, and another face, glimpsed, just once, in a dream about magic. She sensed they were connected, somehow, and hung the pictures side by side. The red-head and her wheaten friend with the tiny, secret smile.

She drew everything she remembered, and some things she didn't. The large, melancholy man with sad, sad eyes appeared in a snowstorm and candlelight. Dressed up for a party. In chains. A dapper gentleman with glasses and a noble bearing smiled kindly up from her page, like he had a secret to tell, Then the little girl appeared again, in pigtails and overalls, much younger than before.

_He _appeared from her pen next, all long lines and harsh, compelling angles. The dark prince of the tale, laughing, eyes dark with an unquenchable lust. Unsatisfied, Buffy rooted through her junk drawer for a lump of charcoal and drew him again with bold, strong strokes that suited his darkness. Tracing her finger over that sharp face and soft, cruel mouth, Buffy felt a shiver go up her spine. If the darker man had eyes like a summer rain, this one was thunder passing by.

All night, she worked like a woman possessed. Drawing and re-drawing. Destroying and starting over. Until her fingers cramped and her muscles seized. And still, she drew. In pencil and paint and crayon. In a fever, long past the time when she was supposed to leave for work. The phone shrilled. Buffy ignored it.

Finally, well past noon, she collapsed on the living room floor, surrounded by crumpled paper and discarded writing implements. Her pictures papered the living room, the hall, and parts of the kitchen. There were even a few in the bathroom. They hung on the windows so no light entered, creating eerie, muted shadows on the floor. She crawled into bed and slept for two days. When she woke, she was jobless, having been politely been let go via answering machine. 

Buffy knew she was unraveling and couldn't bring herself to care. She spent the next day and a half in her pajamas, watching daytime TV and considering her drawings. They were like chapters in a forgotten story, full of secrets she longed to know. Finally, with her fridge empty and a cupboard populated only by two small cans of corn, she wandered out to the grocery store.

And that was when her mother popped in to use the washer.

Opened the door with her key and walked into the supernatural portrait gallery. Nearly had a heart attack, from what Buffy could gather, and immediately got on the phone with Hank Summers.

Her hysterics hadn't died down much by the time Buffy climbed the stairs, clutching a grocery bag, blithely unaware of the drama in her apartment. Luckily, she had good ears and caught a few, broken phrases before waltzing right into an intervention, Mom-style.

"....don't know what to do....had some kind of relapse...call the doctor..."

That was all Buffy needed to hear. She ducked back into the stairwell and carefully traced her way down. She spent the next two hours on a park bench behind some low-hanging shrubs, forming a plan. She had a little money, a passport. Credit cards. But nowhere to go, no one to help her. 

Except...

The person who'd written out her dreams.

She pulled _Tales of the Key _from her purse and flipped to the back. Read the scant lines of information for the hundredth time in three days. They were suddenly her lifeline. There was no picture of the author, just this:

_W. J. Hunt is the author of twenty-five 'Aurora_' _tales. Mr. Hunt enjoys beer, global warming, and his privacy._ _He lives in Nutley, England with several mice, a herd of nosy neighbors and two cats he doesn't really want. _

Buffy closed the book and tipped her face up to the sun. Nutley, England. How hard could it be to find? England wasn't that big, right?

She gathered her purse and left the park, with its twitter of birdsong, behind. Made her way home and crept up the stairs. Cautiously peeked into her apartment and found it empty. After only a quarter hour of hasty packing, if it could be called that, she scribbled a note and left without a backward glance, pulling the door firmly shut on her way out.

A cab ride to the airport later, she was perusing an atlas in the terminal bookstore, with little success. 

Nutley, England. Where the hell was it?

**********************************************************

"It's in the Ashdown Forest." The ticket agent put a manicured finger down on the map. "Right here."

Buffy swallowed. "Excuse me, did you say _forest?_" Who lived in a forest, anymore? No one except Yeti. "With, like. lions and tigers and bears?"

"Oh, my," The woman finished cheerfully. "More like trees and fauna and woodchucks. It's a lovely area." She handed Buffy her ticket. "Better hurry. They're boarding."

Buffy was still kind of stuck on the whole forest concept. "O...Okay. Thanks a lot."

"You all right?"

"I'm excellent!" Buffy replied, a little too loudly. " Just loving the woodchucks. I totally support them." 

"Well, good. Run along now. Or you'll be late and have to catch another flight."

"Oh, no," Buffy protested. "I have to go now or get hauled back to the asylum." 

Leaving the clerk's shocked face behind, she turned and ran for the gate.

TBC


	3. Freedom and Youth

Title: Many Roads

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo,com

  
  


Many Roads

by Lily Ann

  
  


Chapter 3: Freedom and Youth

  
  


She was wrong about hell.

  


It wasn't sharp-eyed little men in white coats, wielding wonky drugs. Or group therapy with two schizophrenics, a compulsive flasher, and several Shouters, as she came to call those patients who suddenly screamed out, for no apparent reason. 

  


"Ingrid, turn the dryer on! There's a bear in the tent!"

  


"Where's my grandmother, bitch?"

  


"In the end, there can be only _ONE!"_

  


That was just a little frightening and a lot wiggy. Hell, she had concluded, was Heathrow airport, at rush hour. With her only bag lost, serious currency confusion, and the line for the bathroom longer than the Hollywood strip, Buffy was quickly losing her fingernail grip on control.

  


It didn't help that, halfway across the Atlantic, icy-cold terror had dropped over her like a bucket of ice water. Suddenly doused with relentless and paralyzing doubt, the free cocktail peanuts in her belly surging upward, Buffy had bolted for the tiny bathroom, plowing over stray purses and feet in her headlong flight. Afterward, she returned to her window seat and remained there, face averted from the dizzying view. Maybe, Buffy reasoned, if she was very quiet, no one would make her leave the plane. She could just fly home again. _Right, Buff, _common sense immediately countered, _flawed reasoning, much? It probably goes to Moscow next._ With her luck she'd wind up in a gulag. Or a chain gang, spearing trash. Or, worse yet, dead.

  


What was she doing, crossing an ocean by herself? Thinking she could run away on some wild adventure and not have it all end very, very badly? She had very little money, only the bare bones of a plan, and no knowledge of life beyond Los Angeles. Hell, she'd never been out of California in her life. Everything she knew about England came from Harlequins, where every heroine had skin like pearl and all the men were named Allesandro.

  


Her situation only got worse once the flight ended. After the discovery of the lost bag, minor hyperventilation ensued. Then, she was nearly trampled by a reuniting family. Escaping the hugging, squealing horde with only a bruised foot and mussed hair was a major accomplishment. Perhaps, the only one of the day, because, when she finally elbowed her way up to the information desk, fate, yet again, served her big, fluffy failurecakes. With a doily and real butter.

  


"What do you mean the bus only goes to Nutley twice a week?"

  


She stared at the well-groomed clerk, praying she'd heard wrong.

  


"It's a very sparsely populated area. The people who do go usually drive themselves." She handed Buffy a pamphlet. "You could rent a car."

  


_Sure, I could. If most of my money and credit cards weren't in the Houdini bag of spontaneous disappearance_.

  


But, Buffy managed a wobbly smile. "I'll do that." 

  


"Actually, you're very lucky. The next bus goes out tomorrow. At," the lady consulted her schedule, "Ten A.M. from Piccadilly Circus."

  


_There's a circus? How appropriate. _"Um...where's that?"

  


The woman was obviously used to dealing with tourists who were clinging to the fender of the moving clue bus."It's at the center of everything, of course. In London." She pointed to a stream of people, all flowing toward some common point. "The tube will take you straight there."

  


"I go through a tube to get to the circus?" Buffy had officially gone down the rabbit hole. _Oops, better not say that_. It was probably somewhere in the airport, complete with teacups and mocking fantasy figures.

  


The tube, it was then patiently explained to her_, _was London's subway system. Only, it wasn't called a subway, because subway meant something else. Halfway through, Buffy felt a tension headache coming on, and tried hard to concentrate on the even voice and gesturing hands that were, at that moment, her only lifeline. 

  


Luckily, she was still able to grasp most simple concepts, and managed to find her way to the correct platform following the clerk's good directions. The ride to London was not quite an hour long. Buffy spent most of it in a daze. Very occasionally, the crackle of newspapers or shuffling feet penetrated her fog. Just like at home, there were a lot of backpacks and cellphones on the train. Everybody seemed to be playing Kylie Minogue. Lulled by the rocking of the car, Buffy finally closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the car had stopped and passengers were disembarking to the call of "Mind the

gap!"

  


Piccadilly Circus wasn't at all like she expected. Emerging into the light, still blinking sleep from her eyes, Buffy walked past a food boutique, a couple of banks, and some souvenir shops aflutter with Union Jacks, and found herself in the large roundabout she'd been told to look for. Her first impression of the place was that it was noisy and bright, a disharmony of horns and voices. Crowded and somewhat garish, like Los Angeles, but full of culture and a certain pride. There were a lot of people, hanging about. Buses, idling. A neon signboard announced the presence of _Burger King, _an oasis of familiarity in a strange land. Buffy spent a little of her precious money on a hamburger and ate it while she walked, the flavor of America exploding across her tongue with every bite. Pickles and ketchup and home. _California. _She wondered if she'd ever get back.

  


Night fell too soon. It always did, she thought, when you had no place to go. Buffy considered appropriating a park bench and just waiting out the darkness. But, in the movies, homeless people always got killed on park benches. Shot, stabbed or beat about the head for their coat or their shoes. Buffy didn't have a coat, but she had shoes. Nice ones. She intended to keep them. And maybe, just maybe, some small vain thread of her, woven tightly into her sense of self, resisted the notion of Buffy-as-vagrant. Once, a long time ago, she'd been popular and admired. Bound for glory. A budding May Queen. If she just kept walking, maybe she could be all those things again, not this scattered wreck of a girl who jumped at shadows and slept with ghosts.

  


She walked until her legs trembled from cold and fatigue. It was early September, and the temperature reflected the subtle change of season. Buffy ducked into an alley, where she leaned against the side of a building, shivering. It was stupid, she knew, to crawl into dark places, given her history and her sex. No worse, though, than getting arrested for loitering and missing the fucking bus, she reasoned. Pressing her forehead against the red bricks, Buffy wondered if it was possible to die of despair.

  


She fished in her jeans pocket, lit a cigarette with quaking hands. Turned and leaned her head back, exhaling a long stream of smoke. Gradually, began to feel stronger. It was then, in the meager orange glow, that she noticed something set on the building to her left, slightly higher than eye level. A plaque, of some sort. Flipping her lighter open, Buffy lifted it high, tracing the raised letters with her fingers when the shadows and gloom conspired to keep their secret.

_ FORMER SITE OF STAFFORD JAIL_

ESTABLISHED 1800

  


A tingling sensation like icy breath washed over Buffy's spine. Why, she knew not. There had to be thousands of such memorials all over such a grand, troubled old land. She moved closer. It read, in full:

  


_On this spot of ground, in the year of our lord, eighteen hundred and sixty-seven, four Irish rebels were hanged for crimes against the majesty of Britain. They organized the infamous jail break at Manchester, in which lives were lost, and made the ultimate amends._

_Thomas Collins _

_ Patrick Bannon_ __

_Michael Cleary _

_Liam O'Connor_

  


_Climbed the rugged stair_

  


_Dedicated by the Anglican Sisters_ _of Mercy. May, 1901. "Temper your wrath, Lord Jesus."_

Beneath the last, someone had defiantly scratcheda word with some sharp tool. _Fenian._

  


"It was another name for the Irish Republican Brotherhood_."_

  


The voice came from somewhere beyond her left shoulder. Startled, Buffy whirled, dropping her lighter and plunging the alley into darkness.__

_"_Relax, kid. This isn't a stick-up."

  


"What do you want?" Buffy pressed back against the bricks.

  


"Not your entrails for my midnight snack, if that's what you're all twitchy about. Bloody Jack I'm not."

  


Realistically, Buffy knew that she was about as scary as a dish of rice pudding, but a little bravado couldn't hurt, she reasoned. "Scram, before my knee has a powwow with your crotch, mister."

  


The stranger merely laughed. "Straight to the point. I like that. Nobody _threatens _each other these days, y'know? There's no rumbles or brawls to speak of. No demanding satisfaction or confrontations at high noon. Did you know that, back in the day, a man's dueling pistols were more valuable than his wife?"

  


"That's very interesting. Now, get out of my way."

  


"No problemito, my violent little Senorita." The man stepped back, just as dark clouds cleared the moon, releasing a thin, white light. In that pale glow, Buffy saw the speaker clearly for the first time. He was dark, swarthy, and rather small, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. __

  


"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.

  


"The stranger tipped his bowler. "Whistler."

  


_Funny name. Kinda gay. _"Do you always hang out in alleys?"

  


"I could ask the same of you..." He trailed off meaningfully.

  


"Buffy," she supplied. "Buffy Summers."__

  


Whistler grinned. "See, we're old friends already."

  


"Yeah. Whatever." Buffy shrugged. _Weird little guy._

  


_"_So, tell me, Buffy Summers," Whistler tapped the old plaque. "Are you a history buff? Pun intended."

  


Buffy groaned. "That joke was ivy-league bad. Totally flop worthy. And no, I'm not historical."

  


"I wouldn't say that."

  


"What do you mean?"Buffy shuffled her feet nervously.

  


"There's history in everybody_, _kid. We're born filled with it. The world makes us forget. But it's there. In the shape of a face_. _When we dream or feel the drive to create." Whistler's keen eyes cut through the shadows to find Buffy. "Some forces are more powerful than death. We survive ourselves."He gestured to the wall._ "_You could have a connection to one of these poor boys here and not even know it."__

  


Buffy shivered. "They were hanged right here. For their country."

  


Whistler shrugged. "Partly. It takes a certain kind of man to go forth and act without prudence, sanity_, _or caution.It's a myth that every hero is pure and noble. All the ones I_'_ve known were filled with rage and self-doubt_." _He laid a hand on the plaque. "This was the way _their_ anger went. Who knows what would have become of them without that outlet, what other tides might have swept them up. There's no fever like freedom when you're young."__

  


"I've never been that passionate about anything," Buffyremarked, a little sadly. "Except some drawings straight out of the Adams Family album."

  


"Maybe you just haven't found your tide yet. Seems to me you're on the right track, though. Braving the big, bad city." He looked at her quizzically. "Why was it you came to London, kid?"

  


"It's kind of private."

  


"Fair enough."

  


"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

  


Whistler laughed. "Probably not." He glanced at the moon, taking its measure. "Where did the time go, huh? Its been grand, but I'd better shuffle before the meter maid tickets my windshield. I think she's a Horgwrath demon in disguise."

  


"Oh. Okay." Buffy did her best to sound nonchalant.

  


"Adios, amiga." He made a funny little bow, lifted his hat in salute. Turned to go, but took only two steps before returning.

  


"Say, can I drop you somewhere?"

  


Buffy refused to open her curtain of gloom and let in the smallest ray of hope. "Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that."

  


"Why not?"

  


"It's _seriously_ far out of your way. Seriously. There's woodchucks._"_

  


"Really? I love woodchucks. They're like the other white meat."

  


"No, you don't."

  


"Yeah, you're right," Whistler sighed. "The only thing I like less is a dame in distress. So, come on. Shake a leg."

  


Whistler's car was parked two streets over, still ticketless. An old Cadillac that had seen better days, but the seats were soft with age and the interior was comfortingly leathern. Whistler flipped the heater on when Buffy was settled and she leaned gratefully into the warmth.

  


"So, blondie. Where to?"

  


"Um, Nutley. It's in a forest."

  


Whistler nodded. "Interesting little place. Wild as you'll get, in these modern times."

  


"You've _been_ there?"

  


"Uh-huh. It's famous, in a way. Milne based his Hundred Acre Wood on that little piece of heaven."

  


"Milne as in A.A. As in _the?"_

  


"That's the one."

  


"Wow." Buffy settled back in her seat to watch the streets begin to fly by as the ancient car gained speed. This was probably a really bad idea, heading into a forest in a strange car with an even stranger man. _Look, Ma! No hands!_ But the decision was already made, had been clinched in the alley. It had been surprisingly easy to choose, like some invisible force was giving her a giant push from behind.

  


Buffy let her head fall back, exhaustion finally keeping pace. She'd held it at bay for hours and hours. Now, it was winning the race. Through slitted eyes, she glimpsed the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace. Quaint old buildings. The car was quiet and dark, Whistler's driving fast and steady. _The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality. _She'd read that somewhere, a long time ago. _Since then 'tis centuries._

  


Buffy's eyes finally drifted shut. 

  


And she dreamed about passion. How you found it. Where it led.__

  
  


_********************************************************************_

  


_No one could see her, but she was always there. _

_Drifting through the halls of the old hotel, listening to the sounds of love that wood and plaster couldn't contain. At the grave side, with the rest, when they buried Sleeping Beauty after ten years gone. On Cemetery Hill, her gown a flurry of stars, watching the pale man and the willowy girl walk hand in hand. He called her his yellow rose of Texas. She loved him to the end of his days._

  


_It was good._

  


_*********************************************************************_

  


"Hey, there. Are you alright?"

  


Buffy seized awake to find Whistler peering at her in concern from his side of the cavernous automobile.__

  


"Fine." Buffy struggled to sit up.

  


"You were crying in your sleep."

  


"Allergies_,_"Buffy lied easily. "Hay fever nasty."

  


Her companion merely raised an eyebrow. Buffyfocused on the horizon. Sunrise was upon them, spreading silver-rose fingers of lightover the landscape. Buffy drew in a breath. It really was a forest, thick with brambles and fern, heather and ivy. Oaks with gnarled branches and heavy trunks. They passed stands of copper beech trees and a hectic herd of wild sheep before rolling into the town proper.

  


Main Street, Nutley-style, consisted of a small general store, chemist, and one diner. A church steeple was just visible, peeking over the rooftops.

  


"Here we are." Whistler cut the engine. "I think it's safe to say, Springsteen will neverplay here."__

  


Buffy clambered out of the car and shut her door. "Thank you so much," she said simply, through the open window.__

"You're welcome, kid. I hope you find what you came for."

  


"Me too," Buffy replied. "Thanks again."

  


Whistlerstarted to pull away, then abruptly slammed on the brakes. "Hey, kid," he called, drawing Buffy to the side of the car. "Did you know there's vampires in the Balkans?"

  


"Noooo." Buffy let the word out slowly, puzzled.

  


"You will."__

  


And then he was gone with a squeal of tires.__

  


TBC

Notes: Yeah, Angel was born in the 1720's, but this an AU, dudes. They go where they want. Ta. And, yeah, I moved the Stafford Jail from Manchester to London. Cause I could.


	4. The Wild Girl

Title: Many Roads

Contact::saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

Author: Lily Ann

  


Title: Many Roads

by Lily Ann

  
  


Chapter 4: The Wild Girl

  


the day that she came

I'm freezing that frame–Tori Amos

  


Buffy felt a little bereft when Whistler pulled away, though he'd been very nice. Brought her farther than she ever thought she'd actually get.

  


But, the town was still buttoned up tight, the storefronts dark and uninviting. Buffy was the only living presence on Main Street, experiencing , for the first time, the hush of a small town at daybreak, deep silence broken only by the tingle of wind chimes and that manic hum that seemed to constantly emanate from the great forest. 

  


_Where do I go from here?_

  


Directions were what she needed. A flicker of movement inside the general store caught her eye, and Buffy tried the door. It opened easily. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


There was a spot, at the end of the canned vegetable aisle, safely removed from any smoke detectors, where no one could see you, if the rack of Melba Toast was pulled just so. It was the _perfect_ hideaway. Who the hell ate Melba Toast anyway? It was like chewing on the floor mat of your car. 

  


No, when they opened at Six A.M., anyone who was human headed for the coffee and donuts. 

  


Nutley was a fucking berg, yeah, but they got a fair crowd in the store, unfortunately. Commuters heading out to London with the sun. Mothers just back from dumping off their ankle-biters at the town's only daycare. It was amazing how much caffeine those women could mainline. It was sad, really. Faith wanted to offer them a swig of the scotch she had stashed under the sales receipts_. _Well_, she_ wouldn't be squeezing a brat out anytime soon, that was for sure. Unless it was for _big _money or something. _Huge._

  


She had a good view of the front door through a gap in the tinned beets, and the floorboards were very old. They ached and groaned if a goddamn _mouse_ walked across them. If anyone _did_ manage to slip in early, she'd give her usual excuse for why she was crouched in a dusty corner: "Asbestos inspection. I'm certified." They believed it, too. Gullible saps.

  


A handy vent in the floor received the swirling evidence of her morning indulgence. But, with her face pressed practically into it– she had to be careful cause her Aunt Lydia was a_ human_ smoke detector–she neglected to listen for either footsteps or the jangling bell that heralded a customer

  


Thus, the girl was almost standing on top of her before she even became aware of her presence. Might not have noticed her at all if a blond head hadn't come around the edge of the rack and chirped "Hi!" while Faith still had her nose buried in the grate.

  


"Fuck!" 

  


She shot to her feet, the cigarette dropping away from her fingers, half-smoked. "Double Fuck!" She tried to stomp it out, but the slim cylinder disappeared down the vent. Great. She'd burn the place down and go to jail for five to ten. Become Big Bertha's prison bitch.

  


The newcomer stepped back. "I'm sorry. Did I scare you?"

  


"No, I always scream and jump up when a customer comes in. It makes them feel special."

  


"The door was open..."

  


"Yeah, but the sign says 'CLOSED' which, in the service sector, translates as 'Stay the fuck outside'. Who the hell are you, anyway?" 

  


The girl looked like she was going to blubber. "I'm...I'm Buffy."

  


Faith snorted. _Probably a cheerleader._ "Figures." 

  


She looked the visitor up and down, noted that she was thoroughly American from the top of her shiny head to the toes of her embossed leather sandals. _Daisies_. The girl had daisies on her shoes. Wore brand name denims and an expensive blouse with the ease of long association. Good Jewelry, too. A nice watch. The hair and clothes showed slight evidence of travel, but Faith was willing to bet money this was a California girl, born and bred.

  


The little chin lifted a little. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  


"Just that you took a wrong turn somewhere and missed Milan by a continent or so. So, hit the road, Barbie." 

  


"Buffy."

  


"Whatever."

  


"I only came in to ask directions."

  


"Then buy a map. I've got things to do."

  


Buffy snorted. "Yeah, you were working so hard there behind the Melba Toast. How will you ever catch up?"

  


She had to admire the cattiness of the girl.

  


It'd been a while since she bickered with someone worthy. And, hell, maybe if she made nice her Aunt Lydia wouldn't have her ass wrapped up and sent home via overnight mail. She hated Nutley, true enough. But going back to Boston and her drunken mother was even less appealing than church suppers and stocking boxes of Maxi Pads.

  


"Listen, sorry about the hollering and insults. I think I have Tourettes. We're looking into treatment."

  


Buffy visibly softened. "Forgiven," she said simply. "So, you, um, work here? When you're not behind the snacks?"

  


Melba Toast wasn't a snack. It was hard and dry enough to float Elian Gonzalez and his whole family safely back to Cuba, but Faith let it slide. "Yeah. My Aunt owns the place. "

  


Buffy looked around. "It's nice. Very...English."

  


"Yup. If you need wellies, we've got 'em. Marmalade? You're covered. But, ask for Ben or Jerry and they'll think you're talking about cartoons."

  


Buffy laughed. "No, marmalade, thanks. But I _do_ need to find a man."

  


"Don't we all, honey. Wouldn't get my hopes up. Around here, they're all smelly old grandpas or young, fresh and kinda gay."

  


"No, I mean a specific man. An author. W.J. Hunt. The book said he lives here."

  


Who? was Faith's first thought, quickly followed by the dawn of realization_. Oh. W.J. Hunt. Of course. He has another name, doofus._ _Wasn't born...the way he is. _And with realization came suspicion. __

  


"What do _you _want with _him?_"__

  


_"_I'm his, uh, long lost cousin. Yeah. His long lost _American_ cousin. Twice removed."__

  


Faith's eyebrow climbed.

  


"Okay, I'm really not. But I still need to talk to him. It's about his book."

  


_She seems harmless enough. _"Promise you're not violent?"

  


"Yes! Cross my heart with a Melba Toast. Cracked Pepper flavored."__

  


Faith shuddered, but conceded "Okay. First off...it's a long walk, but do-able. I'd lend you my car except it's, um, in the river_. _Youtake the main highway out past the old post milland follow it all the way to the bridge...."

  


*********************************************************

  


Buffy slipped out of the store just as the first customers hurried in. Outside, she leaned against the clapboards for a moment, her head pounding. The sly laughter of the dark girl–Faith–floated out on a cloud of coffee steam, and Buffy closed her eyes, She'd done a good job of acting casual throughout the whole encounter, but her stomach was on a tilt-o-whirl. When she first saw Faith, Buffy had two thoughts, 

  


_She's beautiful._

  


And,

_I drew her._

  


Indeed, she had. But, in that mad, artistic frenzy her pen hadn't scratched out the portrait of a shop girl. No, it was a Madonna of the streets that emerged_._ _Two drawings_. In the first, she was ebony regret with upturned eyes and a mouth like crushed plums.The second portrayed her dancing, lush body melded into a serpentine curve_._

  


Buffy began to walk, her thoughts racing. She wasn't crazy. People from her otherworld existed in this one, though fate might have swept them far afield, down different roads. What it all meant, she didn't know. Maybe she wasn't meant to have all the answers yet. That was alright, She had time. And freedom and youth and history.

  


Most importantly, she had hope.

  


Three miles lay between she and her destination, according to Faith. Three miles through Beatrix Potter country. 

  


A long walk, to be sure, but Buffy finally had no doubts.

  


She was on the right road.

  


TBC

  
  
  


Author's Notes: Dudes, she's almost there! Don't quit on me. The fun's about to start.

  
  
  



	5. In a Yellow Wood

Title: Many Roads

Author: Lily Ann

contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  
  


Many Roads

by Lily Ann

  
  


Chapter 5: In a Yellow Wood

  
  


The right road turned out to be very long.

  


By the time Buffy found Idle Lane, where the author supposedly lived, with his unwanted cats, she was windblown and exhausted, ravenously hungry and chilled to the point where she could hear her teeth clacking together. Other parts of the world might have been enjoying Indian summer, but not East Sussex. Buffy's thin blouse offered little protection against the constant, blustering wind that was a fixture of the harsh countryside, an achingly wild terrain, thick, tangled, and dusted with dwarf grass. Mad with heather, bramble and honeysuckle. Short, stubborn plants that clung tenaciously to the hillsides, lest they be carried off by a good, strong gale. There were few mountains, but ample hills and valleys. From the high points, she could see straight to the English Channel, across scattered patches of farmland and treetops that went on forever. She recognized ash, birch and maple. The slender blue-green needles of a Juniper. Broom and oak. Wild Cherry.

  


Twice, she lost her way. Had to backtrack what felt like miles, through a blaze of green and russet and tangerine, shades of early autumn. The English, it seemed, didn't bother with road signs unless they pointed the way to big, fancy houses, polo, or ale. Her delicate sandals, meanwhile, were no match for the foliage. Tugging free of a gorse bush, she managed to break a buckle, and had to limp along, carrying the broken shoe. The other quickly raised a blister on her heel. Buffy gritted her teeth and soldiered on, though her task seemed impossible. The forest formed an impenetrable wall on either side of a road stitched with deer crossings and bridle ways. She couldn't see two feet into the growth, much less what lay beyond it. Mailboxes emblazoned with numbers would have helped immeasurably, but "the post," as Faith called it, didn't deliver that far beyond town.

  


She might not have found the place at all had she not, literally, stumbled across it.

  


Slogging along, slapping at hungry mosquitos and, out of sheer boredom, beating the bushes with her shoe, Buffy let out a startled shriek when an outraged ball of fur erupted from the undergrowth. A cat, striped and bristling, that darted between her feet, bawling, before fleeing across the street and up a hidden drive that she would have mistaken for a hiking path. It was little more than a gravel ribbon, unmarked, winding east from the main road, under a canopy of low-slung branches. Nor was it suited to bare feet, Buffy quickly learned, when she followed the cat's fading cries. Forced to walk on the soft shoulder to avoid sharp, grey stones, she still had to pick her way over crab apples, acorns, and bristly pine cones. The trees were also dropping a round, black fruit, not quite the size of a grape, that squished unpleasantly between her toes.

  


_They don't call this Idle Lane for nothing. _Buffy grimaced._ Somebody's not into maintenance_._ Perhaps he's elderly. _The thought hadn't occurred to her before. It made sense, though. An eccentric professor type, living off the land. She just hoped he wasn't deaf._ Or senile._ She had enough voices of her own to deal with_. _For the moment, though, they were quiet. All that existed was the whisper of butterfly wings and the warning call of a thrush, leaves fluttering down and thick sporghum moss underfoot. Her heart fluttering like fine silk as she approached the final bend in the road.

  


*****************************************************************************

  


The house, when it came into view, was a pleasant surprise. 

  


She'd been expecting something modest, very minimal and very male. One or two rooms, with very few amenities. Instead, it was a tidy brown clapboard affair, small, but not overly so, with a pitched roof trimmed in white. Plants climbed over the porch railing, twirled round the eaves, and scaled the support beams, a mini assault of greenery that managed not to look slovenly despite its free reign. Even the porch swing hung on ivy-laden chains. 

  


Buffy liked it immediately.

  


A child of apartment buildings, she'd never seen a place quite like it. Almost a fairytale cottage, except for some gargoyle lawn ornaments, scattered here and there, that gave off more of a Brothers Grimm vibe. And the wild rose bushes that sported waxy, purple buds instead of the usual red or yellow. Very Barnabas Collins, Buffy thought, amused. She scanned the property for signs of life, running her eyes over the lawn, with its border of trees, until they came to rest on a small garage, tucked to the left of the house. There was no car, but something was parked there, nonetheless. Large, sleek, and black. Indulgent, in such a rural setting. Somebody's passion, gleaming in the sun.

  


Buffy drifted closer, her mind grasping at the dangling threads of memory.

She'd hadn't ever ridden on a motorcycle, been ferried through darkened streets by a boy she loved, and had other girls green with envy. Felt the night rushing through her hair and a large hand cup her knee. And yet...it was there, in her sense memory. A moment in time, when the world whittled down to a motoring engine and a man. Her spirit that was crying for leaving.

It smelled like oil and new pennies. Buffy stood there for a long time, just looking. Finally, reached a tentative hand out and touched the warm leather seat. Closed her eyes and imagined she was drawing back a curtain to look out on a world already passing into twilight.

_They're going to get drunk. She'll let him provide the booze and the broad shoulder to cry on. He's good for that, at least. Filling her up with false cheer, hope she doesn't have. Acting weak to make her strong. It won't end well, this danse macabre_. _But, for the moment, there's only her, a motorcycle, and a man, as false as he is. Not a man at all, really, but a piece of night, fleeting and troubled. A lot like the machine they ride on. Lean, powerful, always ready for a breakdown_. _Deadly. A killer, oh yes. Every time she touches him, the nameless victims of a century_ _cry out..._

"Spike." She said it out loud. Like a key sliding into a lock, she had a name to go with that pale, porcelain face she'd drawn in bold charcoal. Laughing, leering. Loving life and letting it go._ More. I want more._ Just as quickly as it had lifted, though, the curtain slid closed, shielding her from remembering, and her heart cried out. _Those are mine. Those are not mine._ _She was me, but I am not her._

Overwhelmed, Buffy turned away from the motorcycle, rushed forward blindly, and collided with a wall. Or, more precisely, what she thought was a wall, until it let out a colorful stream of swear words.

_Not wall. Person._ _Man. Oh shit._

Buffy's nose connected squarely with his chin, and the haze behind her eyelids became a strobing light show. She thought she might faint, and was actually looking forward to it, in a horrified way. But, just as her knees turned to water, hands reached out and grasped her elbows. Buffy could feel them, pinching, a little angry. Instinctively, she jerked away, knocking them both off balance.

"Bloody fuck!"

Buffy somewhat dazedly, concurred as he went sprawling backward, carrying her with him. On the gravel, it had to hurt. And did, as evidenced by the even more intense cursing that went off like Fourth of July fireworks.

"...arse over tits on the fucking driveway...trying to help...gone all to cock..."

She herself wasn't all that uncomfortable, except for the brain-numbing nose injury. Having landed on his chest with a _thwump, _all she really wanted to do was close her eyes and go to sleep. She'd wake up to discover it was all a nightmare. She'd be insano Buffy again, stylin' in her straitjacket. And accept the gift with gratitude. 

But, as usual, nothing went her way. Buffy's vision began to clear. Slowly, at first, then with more speed, until daylight broke through, harsh and bright and real. She surfaced with a groan, to find herself stretched on top a complete stranger, her aching nose pressed into the soft cotton of his shirt, inches away from a nipple. 

Was it possible, she wondered, to die of mortification? 

_He _didn't seem embarrassed, just pissed off. And really, really wanting to get up, if she caught his drift correctly.

"Quit fannying about and have off!"

"Um...sure. Sorry." Buffy's knee slipped as she attempted to right herself, and the man underneath her bellowed. 

"Hey, watch it there! Sensitive area!"

_Okay, that's it. _Throwing delicacy to the winds, Buffy braced both hands on his pectorals. Pushed herself up. And froze.

The face peering up into hers was achingly familiar, a chiaroscuro sketch from her notebook and her soul. The same heartbreaking angles, framing oddly delicate features. The same soft, cruel mouth and laser blue eyes. Those were his lean boy hips, trapped under hers. His body, slender as a blade of spring grass. But for the fading summer tan, he could have stepped straight off her canvas and into the world.

He was waiting for her to move, sky eyes expectant. All Buffy could do was stare. "Spike," she finally managed. "You're Spike."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. What of it?"

She opened and closed her mouth. Tried again. "Why...why do they call you that?"

He raised a dark eyebrow toward the pile of frostbitten hair rioting all over his head. He'd been exerting himself, and it was damp with sweat. Looked sort of...mowed, actually. "I haven't the foggiest, love. What say you hutch up now? Not that 'm not havin' a bangin' time down here with the ants."

She gathered herself and scrambled away, never taking her off him. Spike climbed to his feet, rubbing at his chin where they'd collided. 

Buffy bit her lip. "I'm sorry I hit you and knocked you down and sat on you." A bit of female subterfuge couldn't hurt, she reasoned, looking up at him through her lashes.

And watched, fascinated, as a subtle change crept over her new acquaintance. Some of the annoyance leeched away, heralded by the softening of that strong jaw and a flirtatious curl of his lip. "S'alright, pet. Was a clanger, that's all. Right enjoyable one, too." He eyed Buffy's shoulder, where her blouse had slipped down in the chaos.

Caught off guard by the abrupt skid into innuendo, Buffy yanked the fabric back up. 'That's not what you said two minutes ago when I was supposedly _fannying about._" She couldn't help flirting back a little.

"Had your little knee in my nadgers, then," he practically purred, and a shiver chased up the pearls of Buffy's spine. "Why don't we introduce ourselves proper?" He stuck out his hand. "William Hunt."

"Buffy Summers." Hesitantly grasping his fingers, she found herself reluctant to let go. Again, there was that flash of memory, the curtain parting just a sliver. _I have been here before. Standing in the light with him, touching hands. Was it hello, then, or goodbye?_ Blinking back a sudden, forlorn tear, she tightened her grip.

He was staring at her curiously. "How'd you know my name?"

Buffy shrugged helplessly. _This is it. Don't blow it._ "I...just did." _Oh, that's intelligent_.

Spike's eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring along the sudden tilt of his head. Another shift in mood, Buffy noted dizzily. He was nothing if not mercurial. "You run out of petrol or some such?"

_Easy, Buff. Dangerous curve. _"Gas, you mean? Uh, no. I sort of walked." _Crap. Wipe out._

Spike goggled at her. 'From _town?" _He laughed abruptly. Clapped his hands together. "I get it. You're one of those exercise freaks. Type of girl that runs a marathon, cooks a steak dinner, gives birth and writes a novel in one night."

Buffy shook her head. "That sounds really, um, sweaty. But, no. I walked for...a variety of other reasons. Lack of a car, mainly." She took a deep breath. "I came here to talk to you. Not expecting you to be _you. _But you are. You, I mean_." _ Spike started to back away, clearly alarmed by her babbling, and Buffy hastened to finish. "It's about your books."

Spike looked mildly interested, in spite of himself. Preened a little. "Yeah? A fan are you?"

"No, not really." The automatic response brought a dark scowl to Spike's face, and Buffy hurried to cover. "Except in the way that I am, of course."

He looked at her like she'd just sprouted a third arm out of her forehead. "Are you blotto?"

"No, I'm Buffy. I said that, already. Remember?"

"I mean are you _drunk, _pet_. _Balsed up. An alkie."

"No!"

"Just plain barking mad, then?"

'Again with the no!" Buffy rubbed her throbbing forehead. 'Listen, I didn't mean for it to go like this. Its not like I woke up one morning and thought, 'Gee, I think I'll go to England, walk three miles, lose all my money, scare this guy's cat and then attack him.'"

"You scared my cat?"

God, he was infuriating. "Could you just shut up for, like, 2.5 seconds?"

Spike crossed his arms. 'Now, I can't even talk, that's how it is? You're all over the shop, sweet pea."

Buffy exploded. 'We're not even in a shop! And...and don't call me sweet pea!"

"Whatever. You're a barmy bint,, either way." He shrugged and glanced at his watch. "Say you're peace, then, but make it snappy. _Passions _is on in ten."

"Thank you," Buffy muttered grudgingly. "I guess I should start at the beginning..."

TBC


	6. One Day More

Title: Many Roads

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  


**This is the slightly revised version posted on 9/21/03, Basically the same with some of the choppier parts smoothed out. Sorry, darlings. It was 4 A.M and I was asleep at the keyboard.***

  
  
  


Many Roads

by Lily Ann

  
  


Chapter 6: One Day More

  
  


Buffy kept her eyes fixed on Spike's boots throughout the telling, not quite brave enough to watch his reaction to her tale. He shifted once or twice, otherwise didn't move or talk until she was finished. Not that it took very long. There was surprisingly little to tell. At fifteen, she simply dropped away from the world. Caught the school bus one morning and rode it into a long, black tunnel that opened, years later, on adulthood. She didn't remember falling ill, seeing monsters everywhere. Chasing them with table legs and tree branches. Raving on about super powers, moonlight, and spells. They said she did all that and more. Succumbed to a fantasy that swallowed her youth and left a maddening mystery in its place. The secret of where she'd been. Why she returned. How she'd...become.

  


Long past embarrassment, she recounted what she knew of the institution years. Her time there, and eventual release. The after-days, full of fleeting grace. A time of promises and rebirth, brief enough to break her heart. Buffy spoke of her visions and flashes of memory. Her strange fears and sense of displacement. How a whole other universe was unfolding in the corner of her eye. How she followed the girl-ghost and found the book that led her to Aurora and Spike.

  


Once the floodgates were opened, words flowed. Buffy found her voice, released the story to someone else's ears for the first time, barely stopping to draw a breath, and it felt good. Incredibly freeing, to finally unburden herself. But, she still didn't have the courage to look him in the eye. If they weren't so cuttingly blue, sharp enough to rip a hole in her every pretense, than she might have been braver with him, more honest. But, this was a different world. They were strangers, and he was frighteningly intense. So, she dropped whites lies like pebbles, neatly hopscotched right over the major issue of their connection. Didn't tell him that she suspected–no, _knew, _with a woman's unerring instinct–that they'd been lovers in that other shared reality. Wondered, all the while, if he'd see through it.

  


If he did, Spike didn't let on. Just listened patiently, arms crossed. Lean and relaxed, with his upright slouch and sun-kissed halo of curls. It was going well, Buffy thought giddily. 

  


She should have known better. 

  


Finishing with, "...and that's how I ended up here," Buffy nervously bit at her lip. Waited through a long, pregnant silence. Began to suspect he'd fallen asleep when the seconds stretched into infinity. 

  


They might have stayed that way forever, frozen in bright sunlight, if Spike hadn't let out a tiny snort. 

Finally lifting her eyes, Buffy found him smiling. It wasn't a full-blown smirk, not yet, but the potential was there. Blooming around his lips. Buffy wasn't exactly sure what hackles were, but she felt hers rising. Fervently wished he would say something to buffer the amusement factor she was sensing with growing alarm..

  


No such luck.

  


He had a way of leaning back to look at her, full of studied disdain. It made him look taller, harder. Kind of menacing, and Buffy's hackles instantly broke into a round of calisthenics. 

  


Spike coughed into his hand. Mock politeness, she noted with dismay. _Not good_. He was gearing up for something. His voice, though, was a river of honey. Betrayed nothing.

  


"Let me suss this out for a jot , sweet p–" He corrected himself. "Sorry. _Buffy."_ He managed to make her name sound more ridiculous than the endearment. "Check if I've twigged on proper. You say," he coughed again, "that you had visions of my Aurora." There was something sweet about the reverent way he named his creation, and Buffy liked him again for about a half second. Unfortunately, he had to add, "While you were cracking up in the funny farm."

  


Quietly seething, but unable to deny it, despite the rude phrasing, Buffy nodded.

"You were completely off your chump, then, right?" At her blank look, he clarified. "Wacko, pet. Crackers. Barmy as a--"

"I get it," she ground out, halting the vocabulary parade, and Spike snickered. If he was going to stand there like Mr. Cool Guy, Buffy decided, she wasn't going be outdone. Haughtily crossed her arms. Flicked her hair and stuck out one hip. Drew on the persona of a California girl, her last, best defense._ I'm nonchalant, dammit._

Spike stuck his tongue out a little, upping the stakes about a million points. Buffy simmered with outrage. Waited, with her jaw clenched, for more insults. She knew they were coming, but, still managed, somehow, to be completely shocked by the rudeness that followed.

Spike laughed at her. 

Great, ringing peals of mirth that bent him double and probably routed birds in Scotland. 

Buffy wasn't naive. It had to happen eventually. Her story, to fresh ears, probably bordered on the absurd.. But they'd known each other for all of ten turbulent minutes! she reasoned bitingly. He could have spared her feelings, held it in for awhile, instead of wavering like a sapling in the wind, holding his sides with one hand and wiping at tears with the other. Occasionally, waving helplessly at nothing in particular, like his hands were trying to express what his voice could not.

"Oh, shit," he finally gasped. Wound down, to her immense relief, only to begin again. "Sorry, sorry." 

"No, you're not!" Her attempt at chastisement only fueled his glee, and Buffy began to weigh the pros and cons of violence. "Feel free to stop anytime. Really."

Heading the edge in her voice, Spike reigned himself in with great effort. "That was fucking great," he finally wheezed, watery eyes sparkling. "How much did the blokes at the pub pay you? I'll double the dosh if 'n you scamper back and tell 'em I'm in hospital cause I stroked out." He started to hobble away, one hand still pressed too his stomach. "Limey bastards, the lot. Trying to have me on."

"Wait!" Buffy rushed forward and grabbed his arm. Could this get any worse? she wondered. He thought she was some kind of roving prankster.

"Hey, now! Watch the hands!" Understandably freaked by her boldness, he shook her off, backed away. "Joke's over, love." He scanned the woods. "''N'less there's a camera crew waitin' on us?"

"No! No cameras! No pub! No...limey bastards!" Buffy's head felt heavy as a bowling ball, about to roll right off her shoulders. "Look." She pulled the stub of her airplane ticket out of her back pocket. "This isn't a joke. I'm not a candy gram and I'm _not _crazy." She hesitated. "Things are...are happening to me. Things I don't understand."

Spike didn't look impressed. "Sounds like a personal problem to me, sweetheart." 

The sneer in his voice cut Buffy to the quick, but she tamped down on the hurt, forged ahead. Put as much force in her argument as she could muster. "You can laugh at me till you _rupture._. Point and giggle. Put a big cone on my head. Sell tickets, if you want.'Cause I can take it. _Going with the flow_ has taken on huge new meaning in my life." She pinned Spike with a look."But, keep this in mind. We're not totally in control here, William. Something's moving us around like...," she searched for the write words, "...like chess pieces. You, me, Faith. God knows who else." She shrugged helplessly. "I _know _I didn't wind up here by accident. And neither, I imagine, did you."

She thought she had him when he swung easily around. Considered her with raised eye brows. "We're pawns, then?"

Buffy shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably." She shivered, hugged herself. "Do you dream, Spike?" It was a bold question. 

Something dark flashed in the frozen blue of his eyes, brief, but telling. Nostrils flared and lean muscles tightened. The body language was not hard to read. Spike was both angry and in complete control. Coiled up like a rattler ready to strike. Afraid of...something and damn pissed off about it. Buffy almost smiled. _Why, he's an open book._ But then, he stalked toward her, body tense with purpose, and everything else, including words, slipped out of focus. There was only him, covering ground more quickly than any man should. No longer a shadow creature, rampaging across her dream-scape, but flesh, blood, bone, and eyes. All focused entirely on her. 

She should have stepped back, held up a warning hand, but Buffy never even considered running. Instead, she was drawn forward by his gaze, the force of that unwavering attention a magnet she could not, would not resist. Surprise, and a hint of appreciation, flickered across his stone-carved features when she stepped up to meet him, head held high, and Buffy could hear her own heart beating unevenly in her ears, felt sweat form on her upper lip, despite the coolness of the day. He was not very much taller than she; they were almost nose-to-nose. But the power in him was unmistakable. Spike was thin and menacing as a whipcord, and twice as sharp. Buffy couldn't suppress the tiniest of shivers.

She'd been afraid many times in her life, but didn't know it could be so intoxicating.

Spike appeared to be studying her. Buffy bristled a little, lifted her chin. _Not your bike, here. Hold the appraisal._ But he was determined to look at her, it seemed, and Buffy did her best not to squirm. Finally, he lowered his head. Slowly, oh slowly, and Buffy couldn't help herself. Lifted up a little, swaying closer to his scent of wood smoke, shampoo and sweat. To that plump, blood-red lower lip that was inches from her ear. Almost touching. Buffy turned a little to receive whatever words he cared to leave there.

"I think you should go."

Crushing disappointment instantly welled up in her chest. Buffy couldn't breathe, idly wondered if she was hyperventilating. Shoving Spike away, she stared at him in utter betrayal. Reason tried to cut in: _How can he betray you? He doesn't even know you. _But she saw only his hard eyes and twitching jaw. The face of rejection.

"I have nowhere to go." She had nothing left, not even a good argument. Just the stark and bitter truth. 

Spike grabbed the motorcycle, wheeled it into the tiny garage. Shut and locked the door. "You're a resourceful girl. Got all the way here, didn't you? Somethin's bound to turn up."

Buffy furiously blinked her eyes, savagely forced back tears. _Not gonna cry in front of him._ She repeated it like a mantra. 

"You could ring up your folks. They're probably already searchin' high and low for their lost lamb."

Buffy shook her head fiercely. "Never."

"Suit yourself." Spike started to walk away. "Ta."

Buffy had just enough fight left in her to make a rather urgent request. "Can I use your bathroom first?" She hated the way her voice sagged like a day-old balloon. Deflated of all energy. Adrit.

"I suppose,' Spike sighed. "But I'm countin' the silver after you naff off."

"Well, gee, I've been promoted to thief. Thanks bunches." Buffy followed him across the lawn. "Are you this charming to all your visitors?"

"Just the ones that happen to be bug-shagging bonkers."

"I told you, I'm _not _crazy." Rough floorboards groaned as they passed over the front porch that smelled like earth and pine oil.. _Too bad the man isn't as agreeable as the house, _Buffy thought mournfully.

Spike swung the door open. Eyed her suspiciously. "Don't try anything."

"Oh, shut up." Buffy was too exhausted to banter properly. "I'm not interested in decor by Daniel Boone, so your stupid things are safe."

"You fancy taking a leak in the woods, don't you?" Spike bit back. "Cause I'm about to show you the bloody road on the end o' my foot."

"What a gentleman_,_" Buffy parried sarcastically. "Syphilis has better manners."

The kitchen was small and bright, like Buffy had imagined it would be. Spike busied himself with propping open the door, occasionally mumbling under his breath. She caught the word 'bitch' once or twice, muttered low and fierce.

"I heard that."

"Your ears aren't as buggering messed up as the rest of you, then."

While he was occupied, Buffy stole a glance around his space. It wasn't terribly woodsy, despite her snide comment, except for a large fireplace and some oak furnishings. The wildlife prints on the wall and a small clay sculpture of a rabbit.

Spike noticed her looking. "My step sis made those. Talented little dollybird, yeah? Had her in mind when I made Aurora." He led her down a narrow hallway. "Only super power she's got, though, is the ability to leap her pap's wallet in a single bound."

Buffy just sniffled and wiped at her nose. Ignored Spike's look of disgust. __

They reached the bathroom and Buffy stepped inside. "Thanks," she said woodenly, closing the door in his face.

Safely inside, Buffy sank down and buried her face in her hands. Let the sobs finally come, low and harsh and long overdue. Swabbed at her face with a ball of tissue then let the soggy mass drop to the floor, just to be spiteful. 

She wept for several long, cathartic minutes. Almost had herself pieced back together when a violent knock rattled the door on its hinges, followed by Spike's disembodied voice. "Are you _crying _in my bathroom?"

"No!" Buffy shouted, finally losing control completely. "I'm papering the fucking walls! Leave me alone!"

Her hysteria must have made him back off, because the house went very quiet. Ten minutes passed, time enough to gather her shredded dignity, use the toilet, wash her face. Feeling slightly more human, she stepped into the hall, followed it back to the living room, where she caught the tail end of a phone conversation. And felt her blood heat back up to a rapid boil.

Spike had his back to her, with the phone cradled between his neck and shoulder. Engrossed in regaling somebody with her humiliation, he didn't hear her approach.

"....I'm tellin' the truth! An honest-to-God stalker! Sallied up my drive with the most crackpot story anyone ever tossed my way ... I kid you not! Right now, she's criking in the--"

Buffy depressed the button on the phone rest with a shaking finger. "Excuse me!"

Spike whirled around with a startled, "gah!" Dropped the receiver on the floor, where it set up a distressed hum.

Poking a finger in his cotton-covered chest, Buffy pushed until he backed up. Followed this retreat with her advance, engaging him in a curious two-step across the hardwood. "For the gazillionth time, I am _not_ crazy," she sputtered. "And, you know what else, bucko? I wouldn't stalk your skinny behind if it belonged to...to somebody I'd stalk!" To her horror, Buffy felt her face begin to crumple like rice paper. Struggled to get her final volley out before the storm hit. Stretching up on her toes, she leered in Spike's face, which was a new experience, but definitely worth it. "Do you know what you are?" He just gaped at her, so Buffy went ahead and told him. "You're a...a very shirty person!"

With that, she turned and fled back down the hall, leaving Spike slumped against the fireplace.

************************************************************************

He was waiting for her when she crept out of the bathroom, nearly an hour later. Half-cloaked in shadow. Fingers templed under his chin like a punk philosopher. It was this lack of raging that had finally drawn her out, curious and a little fearful at what she'd find outside her haven, where she'd seriously considered spending a year or two, just hunkered down beside the commode. But such facies were fleeting. Her life didn't allow for them. Besides, the shower curtain had a whale on it, which was way disturbing. _Le tacky._

So, she ventured, once again, under the drawings of wild sheep and red deer . A watercolor labeled 'Sunset Over the River Idle.' Two sketches of the church in town, 'St. James the Lesser,' each dated about a year earlier. Saw him in the big recliner, with one knee pulled up. Looking tussled and very, very young. It was several long seconds before either of them spoke. He went first, seemingly never at a loss for things to say. 

"Did you know you busted my phone, princess?"

Buffy hadn't noticed it lying in his lap. "Actually, _you_ did." She conjured up a small smile. "I was just the divine instrument of breakage."

He glanced at her, eyes dark with rue."Wasn't in our hands, then, huh?"

"Nothing ever is, Spike."

He leaned forward slightly. "S'not acceptable to me, ducks._._ Always made my own way, took the paths I fancied, Didn't have, or want, blathering fate shoving a map up my arsehole." He fumbled a cigarette out of his pocket, and twirled it in his fingers, agitated . "Whole bloody concept of destiny gives me turns."

Buffy laughed. "Agreed. The Suck family's made it their compound."

The afternoon sun had gone in, throwing long shadows about the room, and Buffy was speaking mostly to an outline of a man. But, when he turned his head, she saw that flash of fear again. "Don't want to be a pawn, Buffy."

"So, don't." Buffy hitched herself a little closer, and their knees brushed fleetingly. "Be the knight," she teased, "I can totally see you as the dueling cavalier."

Spike guffawed in appreciation."Bloody armor's impossible to get out of, they say. Probably led to a lot of blokes having accidents." He eyed her. 'What about you, missy?"

"Me?" Buffy pretended to think. "King, of course."

Spike laughed. "I was right, see? You are bodged in the head." 

They fell silent for a moment, listened to the never ending rounds of the clock hands. Finally, Spike scraped a hand through his hair, drawing her attention with the nrevous gesture.. "M'sorry I was such a wanker 'bout it, though. My mum, God rest 'er, raised me a sight better than that."

"Apology accepted." Buffy ducked her head. "Sorry about the syphilis crack." 

"S' alright. Better than being compared to the Clap."

Buffy laughed, but, urged by that ceaseless ticking, she stood to go.. "I'd better get moving."

"Wait." Spike stood, held up a staying hand. "It's past the time you should be bimboing about the countryside. And it's gonna piss down rain, any minute." He gestured to the window rapidly filling with clouds . "Kip here for now and I'll take you to town tomorrow. Hitch you a ride with the commuters. Have you back in London by elevenses."

Buffy's pride was tattered, but intact, and she put up token resistance. "Thanks, but....I don't know if that's such a good idea. You, me, and the yelling isn't really distant memory yet." Her tired body, meanwhile, was screaming at her. _Accept, you twit! Accept!_

"I promise to be behave."

Buffy snorted. "And I'll conduct a thorough search for pods under your house."

"Will you quit arguing the toss and buggering agree?"__

Buffy regarded him curiously. "Why?"

"Cause...ah, hell." She hadn't thought it possible for him to look embarrassed, but there it was. In the set of his mouth, the roaming eyes, "Because I made you spring a leak, alright?"

At first, she thought he was referring to something weird and vaguely sexual. Then it dawned on her. "You're upset because I _cried?"_

"Well, yeah. No need to advertise."

Buffy couldn't stop staring at him. "That's, um, really sweet. Really_._" Wow, Buffy thought. Just...wow. She'd been in his presence for less than a day and already discovered a soft spot_. _A sudden urge to reach out and ruffle that bright hair had her sitting on her finger tips. He was as changeable as weather, she was discovering. Rarely in the same mood twice. Stormy one minute, bright the next.__

"You'll stay, then?"

Buffy looked around, eyed the fireplace and pretty, paneled walls_. _The television that was bigger than the couch. Then she looked outside to the gathering storm. "I'd like that. Thank you."

He clapped his hands together. "Smashing." Noticing her rubbing her arms for warmth, he lifted an eyebrow. "What happened to your kit?"

"Huh?"

"Your clobber."

"What does any of this have to do with hitting me?"

"_Clothes!" _Spike finally exploded. "Clothes, you dozy mare!"

"Well, why didn't you just _say _that?" Buffy rolled her eyes. "They got lost. I told you that, remember?"

Spike scratched his head. "After the plane, right? Before the bloke in the alley."

"Right." Buffy shrugged. "There wasn't much in there, anyway. A couple of blouses and...other things." She blushed.

"You can say knickers, pet."

"Fine." Buffy felt her color rising. "Knickers. There, I said it."

"No cardie?"

Buffy ran that through the Spike translator. "Nope. No sweater."

Spike looked appalled. "You came to England without a sweater?"

"Well, pardon me. I thought England was like...England, not Antarctica."

Spike sighed. "Come with me."

Buffy followed him to what looked like a spare bedroom, but the computer in the corner proved that it was probably where he wrote. As in the living room, there were a lot of books. Books stacked on shelves, books piled in closets. Gathering dust under the desk.

Spike flung open a trunk, rooted around in its depths while Buffy watched with interest. "Here," he finally declared, handing her a long, plaid shirt. "You can wear this."

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "But it's _flannel _and its, um...yours." Buffy ran a hand through her hair. "That came out wrong."

Spike put his hands on his hips, shirt and all. "This isn't Bloomingdale's."

"Well, duh. But hat's _flannel."_ Buffy set her jaw stubbornly. 

Spike heaved another sigh. "And mine. I get it."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"Yeah, you did."

"Did not!" Buffy slid the last word in. "So there!"

Spike groaned."Would you stop having an eppy and put the fucking thing on?" Buffy didn't move, and he finally threw his hands up in the air. "Freeze your spoiled little bum off, then." But, after watching her shiver for two more minutes, he appeared to come to a decision. Walking to one of the closets, he wrenched it open. Inside was a row of women's clothes, about Buffy's size, neatly arranged on hangers.

She shot him a questioning look. 

"My ex's," he ground out, face averted. Obviously pained. Buffy switched her gaze back and forth between him and the clothes, which were rather nice. Very nice, actually.. 

But totally, completely, absolutely not her style. Donna Karan? Phhht. So last year.

Grabbing for the flannel, Buffy slid the closet door shut, trapping whatever demons dwelled there inside, Steered Spike away from it. 

He stopped her in the doorway."Thank you."

"No problem. Lumberjack is _the _look this year. All the cool kids are doing it.?" She began to roll up the dangling sleeves.

Back in the living room, Spike flicked on the TV, hovered a little as Buffy eased herself down on the couch. 

"Watch the stories, yeah? I'll fix you a nosh." 

She watched through drowsy eyes as he bumped around the kitchen, yanked open drawers and rattled plates like they offended him. "Sure you don't want to ring your mum? Phone's right there." The refrigerator squeaked open, somewhere beyond her line of vision, accompanied by more questions. "Or clean up, maybe? No offense, pet, but you look like you've been through the wrecker...." 

His prattle was comforting, somehow. Like she'd heard it all her life. But, her weary body was even more beguiled by the lure of sleep. Sinking into the couch cushions that smelled of cigarettes and pine. Heading the siren's song of rest. 

TBC 


	7. I See Thee Better In the Dark

Title: Many Roads

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  
  


Chapter 7: I See Thee Better In the Dark

  


Afternoon lapsed into evening while Buffy slept. She awoke to a room painted in shadow and one lamp glowing on the mantelpiece, a tiny oasis of tangerine light to temper the darkness.

Surfacing in fits and starts, the first thing she was aware of was soft-woven warmth, draped over her arms and legs like a benediction. Followed by food smells--onion and spices and frying meat--that made her stomach clench from long neglect. But, it was the rhythmic, prick-pricking of claws, digging right through her thick, borrowed shirt, that finally pulled her fully back to the world. Tiny talons, hooking and releasing. Shallow but _sharp._

Buffy's eyes flew open in alarm_. _And clashed, to her surprise, with another pair. Round, green, clear. Attached to the biggest cat that ever lived, outside of the Los Angeles Zoo. A bed pillow with legs: soft, plump, snowy white_. _And very content to remain sprawled on top of her, judging by the rusty sound effects.

"Hi, there." she murmured nervously, unsuccessfully attempting to de-pin her arms. "Nice, non-violent kitty. You're very...ample."

The animal graced her with her a withering look that was fairly easy to interpret. _Couch-hogging human, you are very stupid._

Pinned down by several pounds of cat flesh, Buffy wasn't sure what to do next. Her experience with pets began and ended with an iguana named Chuck, who visited the Summers apartment over Christmas break the year Buffy turned eleven. A refugee of Mrs. Blixen's science classroom, Chuck panicked when she forgot to latch his cage one night, wandered into the kitchen, and became tragically lodged in the toaster. Come morning, the appliance leggo of Buffy's Eggo _and _crispy fried Chuck, to her lasting trauma. 

But this was no iguana that could be effortlessly picked up by its tail. She was gearing up to shout for help–or a crane–when rescue appeared in the doorway_, _wiping wet hands on the seat of his jeansand snorting with amusement. 

"Sid, get off the lady's tits b'fore I pan you good." 

Barely able to see over the cat's bulk, Buffy tracked Spike's progress with her ears. Half a dozen booted stepsacross the hardwood, untilhe reappeared beside the couch, backlit by the warmer, white light spilling from the kitchen, and casually plucked the massive animal off her chest.

"Bloated sausage.Be in an arse load of trouble, you will, if the better half twigs you've been makin' a case with Buffy here."

From her vantage point, the scene was surreal. Like some alternative nature show. _Dr. Doolittle _for anarchists.Throwing the afghan aside, she trailed afterman and cat as they made their way back to the kitchen. Hovered, a little uncertainly, in the doorway, watching Spike go about his business with the portly creature tucked under his arm like a hairy football.

"I think I met Sid's...better half...on the way in," She ventured forward, stroked the bony little skull.

Spike frowned at something bubbling under a silver lid. "Haughty little bag o' bones with colossal attitude? That would be–"

"Let me guess," Buffy cut in."Nancy, right?"

He replied in mock-delight."Why, pet! _Teen Beat_ bumped the git Timberlake for tragic goth love? That August periodical? I'm perfectly gobsmacked."

Buffy frowned."I wasn't in an asylum on _Mars_ or... some other planet without radios." She pinned Spike with the lofty look of womanly superiority. Added defensively, "I know some things." __

"Other than how to jumparound in your tighties yellin' '_rah rah sis boom bah? _Do tell."

She wondered how the frilly hell he knew about her lost glory days as a cheerleader. That era of pom-poms and pep rallies that felt like a different lifetime. Perhaps, it was. "Don't mock my splits. They were brilliant." She couldn't suppress a nostalgic little sniff. "Too bad the coma thing terminated my meteoric rise."

Spike snickered in that hectoring way that made her temper flare."Bloody tragic for all mankind. Makes me want to bust into a chorus o' 'The Squad Will Go On.'"

Buffy planted her hands on her hips, put off by the rude lack of sympathy."Why are you being mean-and- snippy guy?"

He replied with a percussion of obnoxious pan-rattling. Then, "Heat. Kitchen. You know the sodding drill."

Buffy swallowed,"Yeah, I do." Her chest felt very tight. "I'll just go somewhere...frostier." She hadn't many options, since it was dark outside, and, they were miles from nowhere, but staying where she wasn't wanted appealed about as much as a mouthful of stitches.

She stepped toward the door, but a blur of motion dipped around to her left and materialized as Spike, looking somewhat abashed–and strangely vulnerable. Like he'd been shoved into her path, not chosen to block the way. "Not gonna bolt over a jot of teasing, are you? Was just takin' the piss, that's all."

Buffy stared up at him. Wondered if her heart was in her eyes. "No, you weren't. But thank you for saying it."

Spike sighed. Soft and soul-weary, which she wasn't expecting. "Suppose I'm just not used to house guests is all. Not for...awhile now."

Buffy remembered that closet, full of packed up dreams. It smelled of Woman. A blend of roses and languor and rain. Essence of life. "Since your girlfriend left? Or was she your wife?"

"No." Spike's sounded far away, buffeted by some bitter wind, full of memories. Older than the incorrigible boy she met in the driveway, beside a brace of maple trees. Wearier. "She wasn't my wife."

"I'm sorry," Buffy offered, watching the lightning flashes of remembered pain buffet his face. A storm in progress. Thought, _how much willpower it must be to leave you. Or to stay._

Spike shrugged, visibly came back to himself. "S' not your fault. Can't fix what's always been busted." He turned off the stove with a hand that shook slightly. Whether it was from emotion or his natural hyperactivity, Buffy couldn't say. Pulling two plates out of the cupboard, he closed the subject with a final observation, reassuringly profane. "Only thing to do sometimes is move the fuck on. Remember what was good 'n leave the rest."

Buffy eyed him skeptically. _Move on. Uh-huh. That's why you can't even look at her clothes without hotel-sized angst. _"I guess that translates as you're not down with the wallowing_._"

Spike nodded his agreement. "Suppose not."

"Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky?"

"Sounds 'bout right."

"Master of the your domain?"

"Absolutely. Now, bin it before I pop you."

Buffy was on a roll. _One more for the road_. "Pretty much a non-brood-athon?"

Spike scowled, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the serving spoon in his hand "You're a total barmcake. Two bob short of a paycheck. Y'know that, right?' He flicked a napkin at her. Shook his head in mock-wonderment. "The things you _say. _Muddle any sane bloke's head, they would."

"We're darn lucky there aren't any around here, then." Buffy cheerfully stuck her tongue out at him.

Spike retaliated by flicking the stirring spoon, showering Buffy in greasy droplets. She shrieked and darted out of the way. "Now my clothes are all...foody! You are truly evil."

Spike responded with an even larger splat, right in the middle of her forehead. Buffy sputtered with indignation. "The evilest!"

Spike smirked. "You know it, baby." And before she could even process that particular endearment–more intimate, somehow, than the rest–he brought the spoon down across her rear. Lightly enough to be a friendly 'get-moving' gesture, but Buffy felt it to her core. A mad flush that spread out from the place he'd made contact and rolled through her groin and belly like warm butterscotch. Leaving her breathless. 

Spike, meanwhile, had turned back to the stove, oblivious. "Sup's on, love. Park your fanny 'fore I have to paddle it again."

Staring at the softly curling hair at the nape of his neck, Buffy tried to gather herself. And failed miserably. She slid gracelessly into her chair, still trembling with...with...whatever he made her feel. She hadn't yet defined it. Might not have the chance at all, since all this was brief. Only till morning, lest she forget.

Spike was watching her with rare, soft eyes of concern. "Look a dot peaked, you do. Gonna throw a sickie, pet?"

"No. I'm fine, really." Buffy dropped her napkin in her lap. Took a deep breath. Chanted _serenity now_ a couple thousand times on fast forward. "What's for dinner?"

***********************************************************************

_Kidneys._

"Oh my God." Buffy stared at the plate he'd dropped in front of her. "That's an...organ.' She looked up at him like he might be kind and deny it. "From something no longer living. Here," she pointed at it. "On the table."

Spike rolled his eyes. "S'not like I tore it out myself. What're you bein' such a misery-guts for?"

Buffy closed her eyes. "Oh. Let there be no mentioning of guts. Please. I'll...throw a sickie."

"Okay, then!" Spike hastily removed the offending dish. "Let's not mither with these anymore, right?"

"Thanks." Buffy felt her stomach settle back into place.

"No fuss, love. Got a ton o' leftovers. Bound to be somethin' inoffensive in here." He pulled the refrigerator door open. Rooted in it's frosty depths. "Lamb cutlets? Egg and olive salad? Leftover faggots?"

"Faggots?" Buffy repeated incredulously. "In England, people actually go into a restaurant and order _faggots?"_

"Yeah," Spike pulled his head out of the freezer. "Right tasty, too. Liver, bread, beef fat all mixed tog–"

"Stop, please." Buffy held up a staying hand. "Officially revolted, here." She focused miserable eyes on Spike. "Sorry to be such an ivy league whiner."

He shrugged. "M' not whingin' about it." He left the refrigerator and moved on to the cupboards. Pulled out a familiar brown jar and held it up. "What say you to this?"

Buffy eyes widened. "Any other time? That it's really fattening and bad for you. Right now? I say hand over the peanut butter before there's violence." 

Spike laughed and tossed her the jar.

Ten minutes later, she was on her third sandwich. And preparing another. Spike watched her with the kind of awed fascination one reserves for small children and monkeys at the zoo. At her baleful look, he'd set aside his own plate of kidneys and dug into the jar as well. The table was already a sticky morass of peanutty smears and spongy white bread crusts, cups of fruit punch, beer, and congealing grape jelly.

"Sorry," Buffy mumbled around a mouthful. "M' being a pig."

"Yeah," Spike agreed mildly. "It's grand. Just a branch, you are. Get any piddlin' smaller and I'll need the spy glass."

Buffy swallowed a bite of sandwich, "Says Mr. Bony Wrists himself. Look at this." She reached across the table, picked up his hand, and shook it at eye level. "Ichabod Crane, much?"

"Oi, Twiggy," Spike countered. "I'm fit as a butcher's dog."

His language fascinated her. "What does that_ mean?"_

"Means if we wrestled, I'd win."

Oh. _Oh._

The visual of that proffered match hit her like a violent impact, smashed through everything that was comfortable and safe. Relatively inexperienced, she had no idea that six words–_six–_could spin her to a place she'd never been. Into the burning place her thoughts had only touched on in passing. The place of men and women, twisting in sweat-soaked darkness, pulling sounds from each other that were old when the world was new. Wavering souls coming into balance, tangling in salt. Wrapped in each other and in the act of--

Buffy leaped to her feet, sending her drink flying. 

Breaking out of the fantasy didn't really help, though, to her dismay. Because he was still watching her with those dusky eyes across the punch-splattered table. Seeing far too much for a wild boy she was going to be leaving, come daybreak. Whittling away at her pretenses by getting all lusty and charismatic. Making her want things she'd never had.

She wasn't ready. Not for the likes of him.

Deciding avoidance was the way to go, Buffy grabbed a wad of napkins, dabbed frantically at the spill. 

"So sorry...I'll get with the cleanage--Mrs. Clean, here. Working hard.--Do you have any, um–"

Only dimly aware that she was babbling, Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin when he placed a hand over hers, halting her breathless efforts. Didn't say a word, just slanted his eyes toward her abandoned chair, and that was enough. Still clutching her soggy towels, Buffy slowly sank down into it. If he'd asked her to do back flips down the Hollywood Strip naked, she'd probably have complied.

A long moment passed before he spoke. He was the brave one, she thought. Always going first.

"What did you think you'd find here, Buffy?"

It was her turn to be brave, Buffy decided. She owed him her fragile truth, at the very least. Finding his eyes, she answered with as much honesty as she could. "I don't know, Will. Spike. I suppose I thought maybe...maybe you'd seen her, too. Aurora."

"Aurora, " he repeated slowly, shaking his head, "was born in my imagination. And there she stays. S'not like the chit's livin' up country and drops notes in the post."

"But–" Buffy began.

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Don't know why all that shite happened to you. How come you're seein' things. Got bollocks for answers, pet, if that's what you're mad for."

God, he was stubborn."I thought you'd at least listen to--"

"No, you _thought_ I'd just nance along with your bampot story." He'd risen, started to throw dishes in the sink. Answered her not only with words but the slim expanse of his back. "Be a good little sidearm, tucked up all safe." Buffy heard something break in the sink. "Your bloody boy Friday."

"No, that's not–" Buffy gave up, let her denial lie. He wasn't going to believe her. And the blood dripping from his finger was really kind of distracting. Why did members of the male species always break things to prove a point? It was like a law of nature. Women rationalized, men got stitches.

"Here, let me see that." Wrapping a towel around his hand, she squeezed it tightly between her own. He started to pull away, but she held on. "Stop being a jackass." The plain language seemed to work. He stopped struggling. Emboldened, Buffy wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, forced eye contact. "And don't do that again. _Please._ Never, ever hurt yourself because of me." Her eyes pleaded with him. "It's not what I want."

Spike scoffed. "Then you're pretty fucking unique among women. It's all you lot ever do. Get a bloke's motor revving, then pull a runner. I won't do it again. I won't." There was a pleading edge to his voice, and Buffy wondered who he was trying to convince, her or himself.

"I think blood loss has gone to your head." Buffy steered him into a chair like a big, pliable doll. "Sit. Stay."

She found gauze and antiseptic in the bathroom. Unwrapped the wound and picked the shards of glass out while Spike pulled determinedly on another bottle of beer. Alcoholic tendencies to add to their fun, she noted, and felt the thrum of a massive tension headache coming on strong.

***************************************************************

"Stop squirming. Do you want me to poke you?" 

"Oooh, dirty girl." 

With a bit of the sauce in him, Spike's good humor had returned. He could almost get past her utter gall. Sodding _Buffy, _with her pert little body and bouncy blonde hair. Waltzing into his life like the bloody Queen of England. Not thinking about him at all, of course. Or how he'd feel when she waltzed out. Had her quest, she did. And that was everything. Wanted to find out where she came from, where she was going. Just like Dru. Beautiful Dru, drawing down the moon with her lovely, dark eyes and gypsy ways. Gifted with the sight. On a spiritual path he couldn't follow. 

They all left. Bloody women.

Only girl he could count on was Nancy.

All curled up in his lap, she was. Glaring at the interloper with big, jealous peepers. The (admittedly small) part of his brain that wasn't mired in depression and alcohol recognized that he was putting a hell of a lot on a cat, who might get flattened by a car someday. Or catch a feline disease. 

It hurt his heart to think about that. Darling little Nancy getting the leukemia and leaving him all alone. He shared this with Buffy, who stared at him like bats were flapping out his arse.

"What the hell are you talking about? As usual, I have no idea."

Hmmmphh. Figures, he thought grumpily. Looked all sweet bandaging his finger. Like a little nurse. Till she opened her sassy mouth and let fly. 

"Hold still." It was an order, not a request. "I'm almost done."

"Smashing. Have I got any buggering skin left?"

"No. I pulled it all off with these tweezers. Big baby."

Spike scowled. _Mouthy wench._

Buffy reached over him for the bandages, barely missing Nancy's swiping claws. Spike smirked. _That's my girl._

"I don't think she likes me," Buffy observed.

Spike shrugged. "Course she doesn't. You're competition." He stroked the cat affectionately. "No need to be jealous, poppet. S' plenty o' Spike to go around."

Buffy reached over, tentatively petted the soft ears. Addressed Nancy one-on-one. Woman to woman. "You can't help it can you? I'd be cranky, too, with such a silly name." She valiantly ignored Spike's fit of coughing and continued. "Kitties should have names like Fluffy. Or Fifi."

"Oi," Spike cut in. "Nobody liked my other choices!"

"Do I dare ask?"

"Multiple and Orgasms, of course."

She turned ten shades of scarlet, to Spike's delight. "Did you ever have any shame to speak off?"

"Course, I did. Right up till the Doc slapped my pearly cheeks hello."

"Somehow, I doubt that." Buffy set the tweezers aside. Tied the bandage off with surprisingly nimble fingers. "All done."

"Jolly." Spike got to his feet, with minimal swaying, dumping an indignant Nancy on the floor. "Flaked out., I am."

"Yeah." Buffy still had her little face lifted up, all expectant-like. It took Spike a moment to figure out what she wanted. _Been away from people too long, mate. _

He held up his injured hand. "Ta. Good show."

"I'll assume that means 'thanks,'"Buffy rolled her eyes.

"Spot on, love."Spike yawned. "Clean this shambles up tomorrow, yeah? Look like you're fagged out, too, pet."__

"Um, sure." The girl had that puzzled look on again. Like he was talking bloody Swahili. __

Spike flipped the kitchen light out. Hovered, for a moment, inches away from her in the near-pitch darkness. Close enough to smell the peanut-butter on her breath. To breathe in girl-sweat and....fear? _But, why? _Sheltered, she was, he supposed. Her youth pretty much done in by what life dealt. A burst of tenderness accompanied this observation, which he ruthlessly clamped down on.Cause this, too, would pass. Hewouldn't, _couldn't_ be her rest stop on the way to something better_. _Convenient, till sanity returned with the morning light. __

"Night, love." He forced breeziness into the words. For both of them. "See you in the morning."

Halfway to his lonely bed, Spike turned. She was still standing there, a silhouette in the inky darkness. Fragile little lady of flowers. Beyond ephemeral. Already half-gone.__

With a groan, he turned and went back.__

************************************************************__

Buffycouldn't have been more surprised when he returned, tipsy but determined. In all honesty, she'd have been less shocked if he'd belted out a David Hasslehoff medley and declared himself king of Romania.__

The kitchen was very dark. She could barely see him, but for his hair, shining like a streak of tears. 

"What is it?" The hour was so late. Made for whispering. "Is something wrong?"

"No." White teeth flashed in the night midnight hour. A wolf grin. 'But you can't sleep in that."

Buffy relaxed. "Is that a nice way of telling me my clothes stink?"

"Wasn't meant that way. But, now that you mention it...._Ouch! _Mind the delicates, pet!" Spike evaded her stomping toes. "Why are you bloody women so mad keen on the violence?" 

"Oh, _bin it_." Buffy affected a (very bad) cockney accent. "Drama queen."

"Crackpot."

"Pig."

"Bitch." Spike took the round with a classic.

"I hate you," Buffy lied. 

"Mutual."

"Are we done, now?"

"Looks that way."

"Good." Buffy called the match on account of hygiene. "I'd like to de-stink."

********************************************************

While she lingered in the bathtub for a long, blissful hour, Spike took it upon himself to wash her clothes, which presented a problem. With her things spinning in "the cycle," as he so quaintly called it–like there was only one in existence–she had two options: stay in the bathroom all night, or borrow something of his. Obviously, the second choice was more logical. Yet, she balked. Wearing his flannel shirt was one thing. Sleeping in something that had touched his skin was a whole other kettle of fish. More intimate. Binding, somehow. The act of lovers, not two people whose short acquaintance made guerilla warfare look like a knitting class. Never in her life had anyone spoken to her like he did. They always deferred. Always. Out of fear and love and more fear. 

He was talking to her now, through the bathroom door, which was cracked open just wide enough to pass in a black T-shirt. Buffy took it gingerly, imagining all the potentially embarrassing scenarios that might arise from that one piece of cloth. What if there was a fire? Or it got snagged on something?

"Um, Spike? I prefer to sleep in something more...more. Like a parka. We were very afraid of hypothermia in our family."

"Buffy." Spike sounded exasperated

"It's the silent killer. Brrrr."

"Look, shirt's long enough so your girly bits won't flap out, right?"

"I guess," Buffy grumbled reluctantly.

"Put the fuckin' thing on, then!" Spike exploded.

"Stop yelling at me!"

"Quit actin' like a belle!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Buffy jerked the shirt over her head. "Happy, now?"

"Chuffed." He swung the door open without waiting for the official go-ahead. Leaned against the sink and raked Buffy up and down with those heady eyes that spelled trouble. "Look biteable in that rig, you do."

Buffy tugged self-consciously at the hem. Turned the color of cherry Lifesavers. But her stomach gave a funny little flip at his obvious approval. "I _look_ like the ho of the universe."

Spike shook his head. "Leave off the sad-sack routine. M'not so much of a bumpkin that I can't appreciate a beautiful woman. We don't get much of your type round here."

Buffy lifted her chin. "And what's my type, exactly?"

Spike's eyes crinkled up around the edges when he smiled. _Really _smiled, without shields. She hadn't noticed that before. "Fiery," he clarified, adding the Head tilt of Doom–_oh, not that--_just to make her feel like she was hip deep in warm syrup. Evil, evil man. 

Well, two could play at this game.

A slight mist still hazed the bathroom, hung in the air between them like a promise of heat. His hair was curling wildly from the steam, white as breakers, and a single droplet of sweat raced down the jut of one cheekbone like a liquid challenge. Buffy was naturally competitive; what else could she do but take it up? From somewhere outside of herself, she watched her hand go rogue, reach for that bead of moisture, pluck it away. It glittered on her fingertip like a jewel until Spike seized her wrist in his strong fingers and licked it away, oceanic eyes fixed on her the entire time.

She started at the rough-soft scrape of his tongue on her flesh. Instinctively pulled away as the sensation entered her being with a jolt, shredding cherished illusions about men. That the suitable ones were always polite and courteous. Up and coming in the world, weaving their magic on Wall Street or the stock exchange. Safe as houses, the better way to live and love. Because bad boys were fleeting and no woman wanted an eternal heartbreak like William Hunt.

Did they?

He scowled at her half-hearted attempt to disengage. Rumbled, deep in his chest. Bass thunder that Buffy immediately labeled the stay-put sound. Low, brief, and barely contained, it set off flares under her skin, shocking little blazes of primitive recognition. She'd never given much thought to her body's needs and wants. Its femaleness. But, there was something about him. No, him and her_ together_ –call it Kismet, call it chemistry; heck, call it magic–that made her want to exercise her power. Flirt and laugh and paint her toes a terrible, garish scarlet. Dance like it was the last day. Touch and be touched, until time was done.

Make Spike rumble some more.

She was being careless, and the part of her brain that wasn't fixated on steam, and soap bubbles, and Spike recoiled at the irresponsibility. But her hand was still a free agent, and the look in his eyes when she laid it on his damp forearm was well worth the mental anguish. The muscle spasmed, even at that light touch, and Spike groaned, like he was in pain. Buffy jerked her hand away, thrown by the reaction. The set jaw and imperceptibly shaking shoulders. Those trembling _hands._ She couldn't stop staring. Carol P. Christ, what would he have done if she'd used her nails? Had an aneurism?

He was made to be touched. How long had it been? She wondered. Probably forever, faithful to a fleeting memory of the girl who left him behind. The ghost of the closet.

The silence was thick as a shag rug, and Buffy attempted to cut it with humor. "Oops. Did I do that?" 

Hoping another bold manoeuver wouldn't send him over the edge–not _yet, _anyway–she reached out and laid her hand over his wildly thumping heart.

Spike rolled his eyes. "No. It was bloody Bea Arthur on telly." Without turning around, he kicked the door shut and spun Buffy around. She _eeped _in surprise, dimly aware that she was now facing her own reflection in the mirror and he was standing behind her. Close. _Too _close. With the unyielding edge of the vanity in front, she had no choice but to stand there and wait for whatever happened next. There was no going back...literally. 

Spike picked up a hairbrush. "Got snarls, pet. It'll be rat's nest by morning." He began dragging it through her wet tangles with an outrageous air of calm, like he brushed a woman's hair everyday.

_Oh God. _Buffy could see them in the half-misted mirror. Two false blondes, both rather short. Identically swathed in black. Every detail was suddenly overwhelming in its clarity: the tilt of his head, the hard, plastic pull of the brush, her white-knuckled grip on the sink. The way he was positioned like a buffer between her and the world.

Buffy liked the way they looked. She liked it far too much. This had to stop. Before that wily trickster, time, stopped it for them. She attempted to squirm away, only to bump into his...he had a..._oh god. _She knew men got...erections...easily, but they were barely touching. The inch of space he'd left between her bottom and his crotch saw to that. 

Spike noticed her flaming face. Correctly guessed the source of her distress. "Sorry, poodle. It's a man thing." 

He didn't sound very apologetic at all. Spike was obviously enjoying her embarrassment, which just wouldn't do.

Mentally shrugging off her doubts about what she planned to do next, Buffy dragged in a deep breath. _When in Rome and all that._ Then, she took a deliberate step back. "Sorry. It's a Buffy thing."

Spike made a different kind of sound, rough and high and helpless, when she pressed her rear into his groin. Spun her around and lifted her like she was a doll, utterly weightless, and settled her on the hard edge of the vanity. Buffy was acutely aware of her bare legs, hanging open around Spike's slim hips. The borrowed shirt was not overly long; if he'd been looking anywhere but at her face–which was bad enough–Buffy would have exploded into a big flaming ball of mortified. 

But her–what was it he called them?–girly bits were safe. Spike, breathing like he'd just run the 10 K, had her chin in his strong fingers, pulling them both slightly off-balance. Buffy grabbed his shoulders, dimly aware that things were moving fast, too fast, and he was going to kiss her anyway. Right there, in the bathroom, right then. Standing easily in the vee of her knees, like he was buying beer, smelling like sweat and smoke and himself. Making her dizzy, making her want. Making her wish she was ready for the likes of him. But she wasn't, would never be, not even after. Because she was hurting and he was heartbreak and you couldn't fix was what was always busted.

Tangling her fingers in his shirt collar, Buffy leaned in, felt his startled puffs of breath on her face. Wanted them for herself, wanted—

_BZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTT!_

They both jumped at the sudden blare. Buffy lost her balance and fell into the sink. Spike just cursed, loudly and creatively. 

"Ruddy hell, that's a fucking ball-ache, inn'nt? Radging cycle's got to pick _now._ Gonna banjax the bugger." He paced and muttered, brutally kicked the wall twice.

Buffy clambered down from the sink. "In good old American speak, that tirade would translate as 'Gee, there goes the washer.' And, if you're gonna...banjax...something, I vote for that shower curtain. It would be both merciful _and _stress relieving."

But, Spike was already gone, slamming out of the bathroom with enough force to rattle bottles in the medicine cabinet.

***************************************************__

They parted a quarter of an hour later, in silence. She, to the couch and he to his bedroom. All good and fine and civil, but he couldn't stop thinking about the bathroom and how close they'd come to...what? A kiss, full stop? Or would they have gone on, followed the same fiery trajectory to its conclusion?

He'd never know. Because of the bloody spin cycle. Whose idea was it to make the buggering thing sound like a fog horn, anyway? Deserved a spectacular arse-kicking, whoever the fuck they were. Bastards.

In the laundry room, he'd kicked the machine, as promised. Then the dryer.Some buckets. Tore down a clothesline he didn't really like anyway. Unfortunately, appliance-related violence failed to work its usual mojo. He was still had the horn of the century, and a fair case of aggravation.

Once he'd savagely shoved her garments into the dryer, they said their goodnights in the hallway. She didn't seem pole-axed at all over what had happened. Kept smiling at him. Even squeezed his hand, which shouldn't have been all that earth-shattering, considering she'd just shoved her little fanny in his privates, But the gesture touched him, nonetheless.

Which wasn't good. Not good at all.

He didn't want to fall, not again. Not for her. Oh, the girl was beautiful, for sure. But her head was full o' dreams and schemes that would come to no good. There was no place for him there. And the alternative, a one-night shag? He wasn't built that way. Loved long he did, and well. If not wisely.

The sheets on his bed felt too warm, and Spike kicked them away. He usually kipped in his altogether, but he figured Buffy wouldn't appreciate the peep show, should they collide in the hall.__

An all too attractive prospect.__

An hour after he crawled into bed, Spike was still restless. Full of ominous jitters. The kind that were an omen, if not prophecy. Finally, he rose in the inky darkness and made his way to the door, tripping on a boot halfway. Grasping the straight-backchair Dru bought off an antiquey type, years ago, he wedged it firmly under the door and crept back to bed. 

Sleep claimed him, then, and Spike rested for another hour. But, just the clock struck two, he rose again and made his surprisingly sure-footed way to the door.__

_***********************************************************_

In the living room, Buffy heard a crash, like something knocked aside. The noise jerked her out of her light doze. Sitting up, she blearily examined her surroundings. Took in the sight of Spike, coming down the hall. But, not Spike as she knew him.

For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming.

No human being could move utterly without sound. The floors and the walls and even the dust moteswouldn't allow it. Like people, houses had nerve centers_, _pressure points. Spike, though, seemed to glide over the hardwoods like he had no weight at all. Like people moved in dreams, without substance or feet. Even in the half-light, she could see that his eyes were open, but full of glassiness that she might have mistaken for tears.

"Sp...Spike?" She called out, a little nervously.

He didn't respond, but walked right past her, a faint shadow of his usual purposeful stride. Buffy's scalp prickled, and a jolt of pure fear pierced her chest like a cold finger. Huddled on the couch, she didn't dare move a muscle. Not that Spike, the bizzarro version, was paying her the least attention.

He was spidering his fingers along the bookshelf, making furrows in the dust_, _a tiny frown marring the smoothness of his brow. Spike had one of those eternally young facesthat the Gods must envy, but, unsmiling, in the odd stillness of a grey pre-dawn,he seemed older, sadder. Like he knew a terrible secret. 

A thought occurred to her. More of a memory, really, of an Aunt on her mother's side who was known to leave her bed and go wandering.

Buffy approached him cautiously. Watched with interest as he lifted books and restored them to their proper place. "Whatare you looking for, huh? If there's porn stashed out here that is so hugely gross_._"As she spoke, Buffy waved her hand in front of his face, checking for a reaction. Nothing. Not even a blink. Just like she suspected.

Spike was asleep.__

Buffy almost sagged to the floor in relief. _Sleepwalking. Of course. _Watching him stroll around like an escapee from _Night of the Living Dead_ was scary, sure. But, at least he wasn't possessed.Resting her fore headon his bare shoulder, she rubbed it tiredly back and forth, since he was out of it anyway. 

"Oh, Spike_,_" she murmured."This is your secret, then."

Not expecting any response, Buffy nearly leaped out of her skinwhen he replied, in a clear voice. A bit more well-to-do sounding, but definitely Spike, not some invading entity. "They've stolen my inks."

"Huh?" Clearly, they were on different tracks.

"The servants, Mother. They're picking us clean. It simply won't do."

Servants? She got to be dead in her dreams and he got servants? What the hell? She was going to have a word with somebody. 

"Okay, ignoring the Momage cause it's bad to hit aguy with night terrors_._" She plucked at his arm. "Maybe your stuff's in the bedroom. You know, where you came from?"

He gave her the saddest look. 'It just--"__

"Won't do. I get it." Buffy took his arm, steered them around the end table. "Why don't we just have ourselves an ink hunt.. In your own bed. How's that sound?"

Spike straightened an invisible cravat, which made her bite her lip to keep from laughing. "Am I properly attired?"

Buffy snorted. "Yeah. I wouldn't change a thing."

Buffy was priding herself on her fast-thinking and incredible poise, and Spike was docile as a lamb, until they began to manoeuver around the couch. When, without warning, he suddenly crawledonto the cushions, dragging Buffy with him.

"Hey!" Pinned between Spike and the back of the sofa, she struggled to get free. "This is not the plan! I plan! I'm a planner!"__

Spike ignored her. Curling up in his corner of the couch, he dropped, almost immediately, into natural sleep.

_Well, that was fun and informative._

She watched him for a long time, afraid to sleep herself, lest he wander again. The night was very cold, cast in a million shades of gray, and Spike was sitting on the extra blanket, head thrown back, deep, bruise-colored shadows filling out the hollows of his face. Twitching, every so often, or muttering something incomprehensible, until the hands on the clock crept around again, when he suddenly jerked violently, half-sprawling into Buffy's lap.

_A nightmare then, _she thought. _Does it ever end?_

His bright head came to rest on her thigh. Heavy, warm, and dangerously close to several erogenous zones, but Buffy wouldn't have moved him even if she'd wanted to. And she didn't want to. The coarse slide of his hair through her fingers was a drowsy and infinite pleasure. Too sweet to last.

She saw the first signs of waking along the divided plane of his back, where the skin was pale and translucent as a newborn's. A subtle shifting of vertebrae before he lifted his head, looked at her through bleary eyes that quickly cut to the side, taking in the room where he had most definitely _not _gone to sleep. 

Understanding dawned, quick and fierce, and Spike once more retreated behind closed lids, exhaling on a sigh.

"Oh, balls." 

TBC

T


	8. My Elusive Dream

Title: Many Roads

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  
  


Chapter 8: My Elusive Dream

  
  


Buffy didn't say a word while Spike levered himself out of her lap. She held her tongue while he fidgeted on the cushions, scrubbing nervous hands through his hair and looking anywhere but at her. Merely raised an eyebrow when he slipped away and went to lean against the window frame, silent and watchful. Intent on the shadow-shapes of great trees beyond the glass.

  


She studied him in the shimmering, soft-edged light. The defensively tight joints and crossed arms. Alabaster muscles dotted with gooseflesh. Spike was built like a greyhound, lean right down to his strong nose and arched cheekbones. There was really nothing to him. Even the firm swell of his ass under thin gray fabric couldn't disturb the symmetry of that body. Its clean, spare lines.

  


_If I touch you,_ _will you shatter like crystal? Fragment at my feet? I'm not strong enough to put a man back together._

  


She knew she should go. Take what was good and leave the rest, like he said. Before her meddling broke him. He carried her lost years deep within his own mystery. She was sure of it. But would searching for the lost pieces only break them both? Destroy the fragile bond of mind and memory? Drive him mad, too? She'd lost seven years. Her youth and her joy. What wicked plan did fate have for him?

  


How much was she willing to risk? 

  


_Not him. Never him. _Buffy quietly crossed the hardwood and stopped at his shoulder, so close that he could probably feel her moist breath on his skin. She could certainly feel him, radiating heat in the still, cool night. 

  


He acknowledged her presence with a slight turn of his head and hollow sigh.. "Go on then, if you've got something to say."

  


Buffy's eyes swept up the slender curve of his neck. Sought his blue eyes, but they were turned into the darkness, shuttered and fathomless. "Earlier, I asked if you dreamed. I guess I have my answer, now." A smile tugged at her lips. "A vivid description would have been slightly less traumatizing, thanks."

  


Spike snorted. "Didn't appreciate the demo, huh? What was I doin' this time? The bloody quadrille? Driving a buggy?"

  


Buffy cocked her head curiously. "You really don't remember?"

  


Spike shrugged. "I remember the dreams–parts of 'em–but not the one man show. Could've gone walkin' five minutes after my head hit the pillow or five hours. S' all a muddle."

"How long have you--?"

"Always," Spike interrupted. "A tiny terror, I was, knocking about at all hours." He chuckled humorlessly. "Mum and Dad finally broke down and locked me in at night." Buffy must have looked shocked, because he hastened to add, "T'was for my own good. Went for a promenade on the roof one Christmas eve. The volunteer firemen had to fetch a ladder." He shuddered minutely. "Still can't abide bein' shut up, though. Not to this very day."

"Claustrophobia?" Buffy asked, surprised.

Spike nodded. "Tend to fall off the trolley a bit in tunnels and underpasses. Dru always had the paper sacks handy."

Buffy could sympathize. "I'm totally down with the wiggage," she sighed. "I still think my front door was trying to swallow me."

Spike barked out a laugh. "Guess we're tit for tat, then, love. A matched set." He shifted a little closer. "Got enough disorders between us to put hair on Dr. Phil's head."

"More issues than _Reader's Digest,_" Buffy agreed, giving in to impulse and resting her cheek on the warm skin where his shoulder melted into his arm. And he let her. That was the wonder of it. How vibrantly aware they were of one another from the first. Had it really been only a day since they collided? The length of time meant nothing, she realized. There was a bone-deep recognition between them that had nothing to do with how many times the sun had risen and set. 

Spike's fingers twitched like they itched for a cigarette. "So, where do we go from here?"

"I don't know," Buffy replied carefully. "Maybe we can help each other."

Spike looked dubious. "How's that, pet? Told you before, I don't see your ghosts. Got plenty of my own. Every bleeding night.' He tapped his temple. "S' like Dickens stuffed his rejects up my brain."

Buffy frowned. "Did you ever get, like, hypnotized? To figure out if it could be bad sushi or something?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "For twenty-five years, pet? That's a biological weapon, not dinner." He pushed away from the window, careful to avoid her eyes.

Presented with the white expanse of his back, Buffy soldiered on. "I'm guessing the hypnosis thing wasn't a rollicking success."

"No, it wasn't...good," Spike affirmed, rooting around behind the bookshelf. A few moments later, he emerged with a dusty bottle. "Drink?"

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "A world of no." She watched his throat work around the fiery liquid. Held her breath to avoid the grainy fumes wafting over from addiction central. "Topic, Spike?"

"Hold on a mo. Little miss slobberchops, you are." He took another swig, gasping at the mellow burn. "Back in the day, before Dru legged it, she was heavy into the mojo. Stars and planets and auras. More charts than a buggering fertility clinic. Herbs that smelled like donkey piss." Spike laughed fondly. "Ever step on a rune in the dark?" 

Buffy shook her head, but Spike was looking past her, anyway. Remembering. At least one of them had that luxury.

"She had this necklace from some priestess she met gaddin' about in Europe. Waved it back and forth in front o' my nose one night. Said I wouldn't remember shite when she snapped her fingers. Which was a lot of bollocks, unfortunately. Remembered everything, even after. Still do."

Buffy leaned forward, eyes wide."What did you see?"

"Blood," Spike said simply. "Rivers of it. Oceans. All over me, and Dru, and the...bodies." He wrapped his arms around himself like the memory might split him in two. "Some of 'em I think I knew, most I didn't. Piled in a great big crater like broken dolls. And their necks..." Spike reached for the bottle again. "Less said about them the better."

Buffy stared at him. Swallowed. "Oh." Not what she was expecting at all. "Sounds like you had Hannibal Lecter stuffed up your brain." She held out her hand for the whisky. It scorched her windpipe going down, but Buffy swallowed anyway. "I liked Dickens better."

"Preachin' to the choir, pet." Spike raked five fingers through his unruly hair. "Saw enough to know I didn't want to see anymore." He took his bottle back with a sigh. "Should've known better, anyway. The past...it's like a dragon. Poke it in the arse and it won't die, just get ticked off and vomit fire." 

Buffy blinked. "Um, okay. That makes sense. In a _Rodan _kind of way." 

Spike flopped back onto the couch. "Course it does. I always make sense." He smirked at her from under his lashes, but the effect was ruined by a jaw-cracking yawn. 

"Maybe to Tiny Tim and the Cratchetts." Buffy muttered, shoving Spike's feet out of the way and climbing back onto her corner of the sofa. "I don't suppose you're going back to your own bed?"

"S' too far." Spike threw some pillows on the floor. "Sides, it's my couch. M' just too knackered to toss you out on your tiddly."

"Wow. I guess chivalry isn't dead after all," Buffy dove for the extra blanket, but Spike was quicker. After a brief tug-of-war, she grabbed a trailing corner and pulled it as far over her body as Spike's death-grip on the other end allowed. "Touch me with your cold, bony feet and I swear I'll vomit fire."

"I'll make a point of it, then. You just keep those knobby knees corralled. Already had 'em jimmed in my privates once today."

Boundaries established, they fell silent. Buffy stretched out her hearing to find the country sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. Wind in the trees. But, beyond the soft groans of the house settling, there was only Spike's even breathing and the gentle tap of rain on glass. It was almost _too _quiet, an unnatural peace, like the hesitation before a lie. 

Flopping onto her back, Buffy stared at the overhead beams like they held the answersto all her mysteries_. I'm officially losing it, _she thought unhappily. _What was in that booze?_ She tossed and turned and tossed some more, searching for a comfy spot. But, wherever she shifted her body, the lumpy couch refused to yield.

After five minutes of sofa acrobatics, Spike jack knifed out of the blankets, dark eyes snapping annoyance.

"Would you park it? It's like a sodding jollyboat over here." 

"Sorry." Buffy forced herself to lie quietly. But, still, sleep eluded her. Perhaps, it was the silence, black and bottomless. Wrong, somehow. "Spike, can I ask you something?"

His bark of laughter divided the night. "Bit late for permission slips, love. But, yeah, go ahead."

"Are you afraid of falling? When you walk at night, I mean?"

Spike sat up with a groan. "What kind of daft question is that?"

"I dream of it, sometimes." Buffy whispered. "Standing at the edge of this purple void, this nothingness. Or maybe its an everythingness. I don't know. I'm so afraid, and there's nowhere to go but down."

Spike shrugged. Buffy could just make out his features in the textured darkness. Sleepy, but alert, biting that full lower lip in a way that seemed both sensual and innocent. Serious, despite the flippant tone and shockwave of hair performing an amusing fandango across his scalp. "Say hell with it and jump, then. Can't let fear swing you around by the tail forever, pet. Fucker won't let go till you get nasty." 

Buffy released a breath. "I guess that answers my question." Maybe, she really was a coward. Always letting her mind bushwhack her heart, tie it to a boring, comfy chair and run slides of potential failure.

Spike read her morose thoughts with uncanny accuracy . "You're young yet. Few more turns 'round the block and you'll realize fallin' hard can be a bit o' heaven." He paused, long fingers plucking at the skin over his heart, and finished the thought softly, as if to himself: "Its's landing that's hell."

TBC


	9. A Walk in the Sun

Title: Many Roads

Author: lilyann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  
  


Chapter 9: A Walk in the Sun

  
  


_William is alone in the dark, on the verge of sleep or just arising. His eyes are staring, wide, but there is nothing to see. The swirling blackness is utterly complete. Bolster-soft below, stale and earthy above. A sickbed of satin and thirst. I must rise, he thinks, and draw the curtains. Remember myself to the light._

  


_He reaches out with his hands, feels wood at his sides and wood above him, inches from his face_. _He is confined. Buried alive, like in the legends_. _William wants to scream, but he has no voice under a blanket of wood and dirt. And the hunger–oh, it grows–_

  


_There is a steady scraping from above, grating on his hypersensitive ears. Jarring the coffin to shower dust. Somehow, he's been expecting such a sound_. _Begins to claw toward it, thanking providence that Mother couldn't afford a fine, strong box so soon after Papa. Silver latches to hold him in._

  


_The scrape becomes a thud, and, at last, he can see a bit of star-spangled sky through the torn lid. At last, William can climb out_, _sate the madness burning in his veins. Become strong, like he'd always wanted to be._

  


_The vile thing in him sees sky and screams for freedom._

  


_The poet wonders about grace._ _Once forfeit, is it gone forever?_

  


_Above his grave, the merry moon beckons William rise. He does. And the end begins._

  


_****************************************************_

  


Spike sat bolt upright on the couch, covered in damp sweat_, _despite the cold, lemon light pouring into his living room. The sun was just climbing over the trees, painting rainbows on the hardwood. It wasn't much past six, he guessed. Still quaking from the aftershocks of the dream, he took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths_. _Gathered control of his rapidly skipping heart. _What the ruddy hell was that about? _Only once before had he dreamed beyond petticoats and parlor games, gaslight and mourning, aided by Dru's bauble.

  


Now, suddenly, the scene had changed. And he was terrified of what it all meant. Scared to close his eyes. Just like her. Buffy, who had something inside her that was in love with the past. Buffy, who'd touched him in the bathroomand made him tremble with that strange blend of curiosity and dawning desire. The power of a beautiful girl, waiting to come out and play. 

.__

Buffy who...wasn't there anymore.__

  


The blanket was thrown back where she'd spent the night, but his neatly folded T- shirt lay on the cushion, a square of notebook paper tucked underneath. He snatched it up and read:

  
  


_Spike,_

  


_Thanks for everything except thinking that I could leave you easily._ _That's just stupid._ _You're so beautiful. You don't even know. The way you grab life and wrestle with it_. _Keep that, William, and you'll always land on your feet. I'll do the same._

  


_Buffy._

  
  


Spike stared at the girlish scrawl for a moment longer, seeing nothing but her name, before letting the letter flutter from his boneless fingers. "Fuck."

  


He swore and stumbled his way into a pair of jeans, even managed to locate his boots under a pile of dirty laundry. Slammed out of the house into a cool, bright morning. Air that smelled sharp and bittersweet. Like autumn. Like change. This time of year always seemed to bring on daring shifts in circumstance: Drusilla's departure, Dawn's birth, when he was sixteen and hadn't given much thought to a sibling in all those years. Like all the best things, she came unexpectedly, his Nibblet, a month early and full of infant rage that never quite went away. Self-possessed from the start, she made sarcasm an art form at age four and taught him all he needed to know about life by the end of sixth grade. To this day, she looked at him like he was a huge git and it was okay. She'd deal, because that's what sisters did.

And she was never less than that. His sister, despite their joint father and vastly different mothers: Anne, who lay in an English churchyard these past twenty years, and Sophie, the second wife. An American, to the horror of his great aunts, proper English matrons who'd never left the house bare-headed or used a Lipton tea bag in their lives. As a boy, he loved their gingersnaps and tales of spring-heeled Jack. And, in later years, with his father in California, with his new family, those dear old ladies became a last, living connection to his mother, cherished and close at hand.

His mother, who rallied and died in the fall.

Spike was surprised that he'd almost forgotten the anniversary, a day he always anticipated with aching dread. Maybe the rot those headshrinkers spouted, about time healing all wounds, had a grain of truth to it. Maybe. He'd probably still get ripped to the tits, pull out fading photos that rarely saw the light of day. Fall asleep and dream of the day life changed forever. A bright, moving afternoon, swirling rust and gold. The minister's shoes gleaming in the sun and a hole in the ground. The very earth trembling to take her. That was before high school, before Spike. He was just Will, then. Hadn't yet been seized by the urge to dye his hair platinum. Be garish and compelling. Different.

The bike skidded a little in the wet leaves as Spike swung left at the road, shaking his head at Buffy's pitiful lack of planning. The pig-ignorant little chit wasn't heading for town, but deeper into the woods. If she dragged herself far enough, she'd hit the coast, which could be seen from some of the higher peeks. Miles of forest lay between Buffy and that slash of silver, and she hadn't the brain matter to just sit and wait for rescue. It wasn't her style. No, she'd flounder about, probably break an ankle or get herself eaten. Just to piss him off.

The day was brightening, all whipped cream clouds and watery sunlight, but mother nature could never quite chase the shadows from her own creation. They crept up from the thick trees, even in high summer, waylaid you where you lived. It was always cool in the Ashdown, something he never noticed until his years in America. The sun was silkier there, like passing through warm curtains, and he might have remained indefinitely, but for that pratty little voice in his head that insisisted. Home. Now. 

It was the same voice that, years later, in the wake of Dru, bid him stagger up from his drunken stupor and pen the first Aurora story. The next day, he packed up his dark love's belongings, put the scotch away, and wrote the second tale. Another followed. And another. Twenty-five books in one year. He smoked and wrote. Slept when he had to. Lived and breathed his changeling girl, born of mist and given flesh. According to Dawn, he was having a "freaky Lovecraft moment." Everyone else thought he was cracking up.

Spike wondered sometimes, too.

When the fever finally broke, after Aurora's self-sacrificing swan dive into oblivion, he put the whole experience down to chance. Artistic inspiration and a dark, dark time in his life. Until Buffy Summers came toddling down his driveway and shook things up. A one woman whirlwind.

If she'd whirled into someone's car, he was calling out the law.

To his immense relief, she was only about a half-mile from the house, tottering along on her french-heeled sandals, still managing, somehow, to look like she belonged exactly where she was. Spike wore his rebellion outright, Buffy's was in the set of her shoulders and fine, stubborn chin. The world might fuck with her, but it would never break her. And she didn't even know it. He took a moment to appreciate her luxurious, feminine lines, the slender wrists and fluttering ends of her hair.

Before he paddled that curvy little behind like a bongo.

"Buffy!" She must have heard the bike, known he was there even before he called out. The wobbling steps morphed into a stumbling trot, and Spike would have laughed if she wasn't in serious danger of falling on her face. He'd done the pub crawl often enough to know just how god-awful dirt tasted. Hell, he might laugh anyway if she didn't stop acting like a nit and put the anchors on.

"Summers!"

No response other than an annoyed flick of blonde hair and who the hell did she think she was fooling? Spike idled up beside her and raised his voice over the rumble of the engine. "What are you doing?"

"Um...walking. I learned when I was one." She had enough grace to acknowledge him. He'd give her that. But her eyes remained fixed straight ahead, which irritated him to no end.

"Impressive," he countered smoothly. "How are you with languages?"

Buffy's brow crinkled. "Huh?" 

"This is the wrong way." He explained, jerking his thumb in the general direction of Nutley. "Unless you plan on swimming to France."

Buffy spun on her heel and began to backtrack. "Shut up, Spike." 

Short, clipped, and cold. He could work with that. Hurriedly parking the bike on the verge, Spike went after her. "What, no 'thanks', pet?' I'm stunned and hurt. People have disappeared in these woods, you know. Stepped off the trail and never got found. Crossed the fern, my Mum used to say. Like old Peter Quince." 

Buffy quickened her pace. "Fascinating. Really."

"More than likely they were ditzy blondes, though. With the navigational skills of grape jelly."

"Again, shut up. I have a _great _sense of direction."

Spike snorted. "Where? In your left arse cheek? Admit it, Buffy. You don't have a bloody clue what you're doing."

"Don't talk about my...arse!" Buffy responded, outraged. "And where I go is none of your business!"

"The hell it isn't," Spike snapped back, rubbing at his throbbing temples. Dear God, she made him hot and horny and frustrated. And he knew she felt it too, in spite of her ice princess routine. The girl was all fire.

Stubborn, too, in the way she refused to look back at him, aiming her words at the long stretch of road. "We had an agreement, remember? One night. Because it was raining and you felt guilty for calling me names." 

"I did," he admitted. But that was before she _touched_ him, for fuck's sake, and gave him honest answers. Before he fell asleep on her like a prancing git. Before she had his secrets and he had her pain. "Didn't know you then."

"You don't know me now." 

Bugger that, Spike thought. Beautiful, cruel little bitch. They were going to have this out proper, with a lot of nasty language and searing eye contact, because talking to the back of her head was annoying as fuck. 

With his longer legs, Spike caught up easily. Ducked into her path, bouncing a little on his heels. "Don't play-act with me, Buffy. I know what kind of girl you are."

"Feel free _not _to enlighten me." Buffy planted both hands on his chest, which would have been a bit of all right if she wasn't trying to shove him out of the way. "Go analyze one of your other friends." She slapped her temple."Whoops! You don't have any. My bad."

"You're one to talk." Spike's eyes narrowed. "Who'd you party with last? Sybil?"

Buffy's color was high and her voice low. "I hate you."

"Liar." Spike put his privates in serious peril by stepping into her personal space and grasping a sharp, little elbow. "Tell me why you're running away."

"I'm not."

Spike gaped at her for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, that's a kick in the balls."

"What are you babbling about?"

"Not. Running. Away," Spike repeated slowly, wiping at his streaming eyes. "You take a cross-country jog every morning, then?"

"Stop laughing at me!" Buffy stamped her foot. When Spike just doubled over with another fit, she threw her hands up in disgust, eyes spitting unholy green fire. "Go stick your stupid head in the stupid remainder bin with your stupid books. I'm leaving!"

She turned and managed to flounce all of two feet before Spike's voice stopped her cold. "That's it. Run away, little girl." All traces of his previous humor were gone, leaving a kind of wistful disappointment laced with understanding. "S'all you've ever done, right?"

***********************************************************

Buffy couldn't help herself. She looked back, drawn by that voice, dark and compelling, and the memory of other words spoken in the night. _You can't fix what's always been broken. Take what's good. Leave the rest._

Looking was a huge mistake.

Spike was delectably rumpled in a short leather jacket and wrinkled shirt, the top button of his jeans unfastened. With those stir-crazy white curls sticking up all over, he looked like a hot refugee. But the signs of his troubled sleep were there, too–under the eyes, in the angles–and Buffy couldn't forget. That very morning she'd seen him thrashing in a nightmare. She couldn't afford to forget. 

"So, you're hell on people, right? I get that." He was stalking toward her, moving like he was oiled. Using that snake charmer's voice, and it would have been so easy to throw herself into his arms and just feel. Let herself be reeled in, like a trout on a gossamer line, by the magnetic force of his personality. Bright, bold, and luminous. She was that way, once upon a time. Not afraid of climbing high, landing hard. Or the simpler things, like falling asleep. "Buggering idiots are all afraid of you. I'm not."

To her relief and regret, he stopped just out of touching range. Close enough, though, for her to feel the animal heat he radiated, even on a cool, fragrant morning. She didn't have to guess how warm he was, thanks to the aborted bathroom encounter, and her cold fingers literally itched to crawl under his leather and find skin.

Instead, she raised her eyes to that soft mouth with its terrible truths. Managed to push a healthy dose of sarcasm into her words."Cause you know what kind of girl I am?" 

"I do." Spike tilted his head, and his eyes were very blue. Brighter than flags and flowers and oceans traveled. "Bloody brave, you are. Came all this way an' all. Problem is, you don't know when it's time to stop. Get too busy runnin' and you miss things. People."

"People?" Buffy repeated, like she'd never entertained the concept. And she hadn't, really. On his lips it sounded like a promise.

"Yeah. People. You've got to come down from that tower sometime and _be_ with them, pet." She was dimly aware of his fingers, sweeping a stray blonde hair off her forehead. "In the end, it's all there is."

_Be with them. _Hadn't she tried, though, and failed spectacularly, with her parents and her job and that single, disastrous one night stand? Her best fit was in the dream world, kneeling between old lovers on a starry hill. One dark, one bright. Both more hers than anything in this waking reality.

Until him.

William Hunt, who was different from that magnificent, darkling creature, yet the same. The face in charcoal evoked tender exasperation and a flush of longing. Sadness, too, like something was broken and never quite fixed. The man in front of her brought out the same heady mix of emotions, multiplied many times over. And that scared her. Sketches were one thing. This was a human being that she could break with her moods and her melancholy. This mad quest that could take her into the pits of hell and he'd still follow. In a heartbeat.

Gently curling her fingers around his, Buffy pushed Spike's hand back to his side. Stepped back, away from all that sucking vitality. "I have to go."

Spike shook his head fiercely. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Ye--"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Spike cut in impatiently. "I'm tired o' pissin' in the wind, here. "

"What?" Buffy goggled at him, confused.

"It's half six in the morning. I need to take a leak and have a fag. And if Sid doesn't get fed by seven he'll eat my pillow."

Buffy wondered if he was having some kind of waking episode. "So?"

"_So_," Buffy should have seen the flashing danger signs when he stopped to savor the word. "We do this my way."

His way, it turned out, involved throwing her over his shoulder like the Neanderthal's bride.

One minute she was standing there, two feet solidly on the ground, questioning Spike's sanity like most of the women in his life probably had at one time or another. Then, everything blurred. He disappeared from her line of sight and popped up again as a black and white haze around her mid-section. Before she could gather a single one of her bearings, Buffy was airborne.

He slinged. She was slung.

And a unique perspective of the world was born.

Dangling upside down, her hair in her face like some banshee head dress. In the most humiliating of positions. With absolutely no leverage, she just hung there for a moment, stunned. Dizzy. And so very, very slung. Fortunately, Spike's friendly slap on her ass brought red-hot, righteous outrage boiling back, along with her lost bearings. Mutinous little shits.

"All right back there?" He sounded _way_ too cheerful for a man who was going to die painfully once she got unslung. "Not gonna honk are you?"

"Yes! Yes, I am! You should put me down instantly!"

"Nah." Spike anchored her legs firmly with his left arm and began to move in the direction of the bike. "Jus' don't spew on the leather, right?"

"I'll make a fucking point of it," she muttered furiously.

"Ta." Spike slapped her again, and Buffy would have joyfully kicked him in the jaw if she wasn't pinned.

The back of his jacket was slippery and Buffy's palms slid when she tried to push up, unable to bear the jouncing a second longer. If she didn't get right side up, honking was very likely. "Spike, stop."

"You want something?"

"I want you to put me down, doofus!"

"Okay." He started to release her legs.

Buffy screamed as she slid head-first toward the ground. "No, don't!"

Spike moved quick as a cat, grabbing her in mid-fall. "Thought so." The stomach-roiling ride resumed. 

"You're a beast," Buffy hissed, aiming a weak punch at his backside, the only vulnerable target area she could reach. Nice, threadbare backside, she noted woozily, aggravated that she wasn't aggravated enough to not notice.

"Hey, now! If you can't say anything nice..." Spike trailed off. "Sorry. Forgot who I was talkin' to." He was quiet for all of thirty seconds before bursting out with, "You want to tell me _why?"_

"Why what?" Buffy braced herself on a lean hip.

"Why Britney and Justin are no longer an item," he bit out. "I want to know why you want to leave, obviously. Is it me?"

Buffy picked at his belt loop. "No...yes...maybe," she sounded pathetic to her own ears. With all the blood rushing to her head, she couldn't think straight. "Nix the Tarzan routine and we'll talk about it."

Spike thought for a moment. "Promise not to run?"

"No."

He thought about it some more. "Okay."

If being thrown over his shoulder was a head rush, getting down was even worse. Spike leaned over and Buffy slid off sideways, staggering like a toddler when her feet finally touched solid earth. Her muscles simply refused to work. Spike reached out to steady her, and Buffy, not entirely sure if he intended to help her or tip her upside down again, panicked. Acting without malice, and entirely on instinct, she threw out one fist, catching him squarely in the face.

He staggered backwards, clutching his nose.

"Oh, my God! Are you all right?" Buffy pulled at his fingers. "Let me see." To her horror, a bright berry of blood appeared, staining both their hands crimson. _He was bleeding. She made him bleed. _"I'm so sorry."

She began to back away_. _One step, two_. _Not sure where she intended to go. The ends of the earth, maybe.

Three steps. 

Four.

And Spike' hand shot out like an elegant claw, hauled her into the taut, supple curve of his body. 

For a delirious half-second, Buffy wondered where her feet went. Then there was no more thought, just his mouth on hers. Dark and coppery. Rough as the road to salvation. He kissed her like he was breaking down walls and, _damn, _it was beyond good. It was everything. Not slow, not sweet, like she always thought first kisses should be. Better. 

It was_ them_. Hard, hungry, full of teeth..

His hand was wrapped in her hair, as if to anchor them both. The other still gripped her forearm. For a time, Buffy just hung there in his arms, half-melted, dissolving. Aware of nothing beyond the bruising slant of his lips. Her own laboring lungs. Swift, violent want. Then he made a soft, hoarse sound, low in his throat, and Buffy remembered that she had hands, too. Relinquishing her death grip on his shirt, she palmed the back of Spike's neck, melding their bodies from thigh to chest, and he muttered into her mouth, low and visceral. Part obscenity, part primal growl. All aching and aroused. All them.

She must have made some noise of her own, because he drew back just long enough for her to grab a ragged breath. Then promptly stole it away by flicking his tongue over her throbbing lips, _licking at his own smeared blood_, the source of that strange copper. Sending her nerve endings into a screaming frenzy, because, whoa, lack of inhibitions, here. And that, too, was beyond good. Wild and joyful and exciting. Like growing up and coming home and a good dream, finally. All she ever wanted and took years to find. Too much, and not enough, because once Buffy waded in she wanted everything. His breath, his spirit, his blood that she spilled.

His body, yes.

Her last, and only, attempt at sex was pitiful and embarrassing, because she was inexperienced and afraid. More than a year had passed, and she was still inexperienced, still afraid, but the doubts were so much _less_ in the face of this unfurling passion, raw and rugged and real. With a man who made wanting noises when she dug her short nails into the tender nape of his neck. Shuddered like it was a gift. 

Understanding slammed through her with the clarity of a lightning strike. _Why should she be afraid when the power was hers?_ He wanted her to have it. She wanted it for herself.

At his next assault, she attacked back with lips and teeth and body-memory, written in the cells, that somehow made up for her lack of experience. Told her what to do, how to move against the denim-clad thigh that migrating between hers. They were creating heat, and her damp palms slipped on those long, lush cheekbones. But it was enough to hold him steady while she bit, nibbled, nipped. Pushed until his mouth opened like a flower. Then a brief moment of panicked indecision, full of fear again, that had nothing on his full-body tremble when she pushed her tongue inside. Spike jerked like he'd been shot, hips arching, and Buffy wrapped both arms around his neck. sucked at the warm, cavernous darkness where her soul now lived. He tasted wild, like blackberries and rain and blood.

They might have stayed there forever, tangled up on that dusty road, but the need to breathe air asserted itself all too soon. Buffy pulled back, panting raggedly, and Spike buried his face in the curve of her neck. She froze, stunned by the intimacy. Entranced by everything, from his racing pulse to the harsh breath on her throat. Slowly, slowly, he calmed, and so did she. The full body tingles gave way to a languorous throb. Warm, waxen limbs. 

He was so still, Buffy wondered if he was asleep. Until that snake charmer's voice rumbled against her skin. "Mmm. You smell like sunshine."

Somehow, she doubted that. But Buffy just stroked her fingers through his wrecked hair. "You're sweet."

"Oi! Take that back." 

"Nope. Secret's out, Will. Deal with it."

He lifted his head, searched her eyes. "_Are_ we dealing with it?" His fingers captured hers, held them in a tight clasp. Like everything hinged on what she said next. "Or was that goodbye?"

More like 'where have you been all my life,' Buffy thought ruefully, feeling a sudden kinship with people forced to pick their way across minefields. She took a deep breath. "You were right about me. I'm... I'm hell on people." To avoid looking him in his eyes, she spit on her finger and rubbed at the dried blood on his upper lip. "I use them all up and run away." She ticked off her faults. "Kleenex is more likely to stick around."

Spike snickered and used his shirt tail to wipe at the red flecks on her cheek. "I know."

"No. You don't. I'm a mule when it comes to my own way. Mood swing girl. Messy."

"Beats out boring any day."

Buffy ignored him. "I can't cook.." 

"We'll order in."

"Your cat hates me."

"Can't argue with th--."

"I'll leave, eventually." Buffy cut in. "It may not be my choice."

Spike stilled. "There's always a choice. But I won't stand in your way, if that's the price."

"I don't know how to ask for forgiveness. It's not in me."

Spike sighed and gathered her in. "Oh, my girl. You just did."

His coat was smooth and sun-warm, the body under it solid. A bulwark between her and the coming storm. Buffy burrowed in, inhaling wild, bittersweet boy. Leather and longing and life. "What do we do now?" she asked drowsily.

She felt him shrug. "We go home."

"Wait." She pulled back. "I need something first. If I'm going to stay."

"Yeah?" Spike produced a truly filthy grin, stirred against her stomach. 

"Yeah." Buffy replied, capturing his face in her hands and leaning in for kisses. "A toothbrush."

TBC

Next up...Buffy and Spike go buy a toothbrush. Chaos ensues.

.


	10. Town Meeting

Many Roads

by lilyann56

Chapter 9: Town Meeting

She was dying in front of the toothbrush display.

They had an amazing selection for a general store in a one-light town: blue, green, or pink. A mind-boggling decision when the guy you just molested in broad daylight was standing inches away. All nervous energy and swollen lips. Redolent of leather and blood. Buffy snuck a quick look over her shoulder. And flushed as filtered light caught the pale hair that only fingers could trash so thoroughly. _Her _fingers. She tore her eyes away with difficulty, glued them to a package of...cherry floss. It would do. In her mind's eye, she saw nothing but him, watery sunlight. A swirl of road dust. Kisses.

He looked like exactly what they'd been doing, and Buffy was torn, veering wildly between terror and a kind of bemused pride. She, Buffy Summers, had apparently netted the town catch. And now she didn't know what to do with him. You're not ready for this, her brain screamed. You're relationship illiterate. You're a flop at sex, and not in a good, sweaty, just-got-done kind of way. You're-

"—taking a fucking millennium. It's a toothbrush, not your last will and testament." 

Spike sounded cranky. Who could blame him? Dragged out at dawn, insulted, punched. Practically mauled. And now he could add _stared at _to the mix. Wherever Buffy turned, there were eyes. Curious. Assessing. Sizing up the new girl who was not Drusilla. No wonder Faith hid in the corner with her cigarettes.

Spike was still talking. Some kind of objection to being there "all buggering day". Whatever. Buffy was thinking about his hands. Where they'd been. Where they might go. 

"Bloody hell. Are you even listening to me?"

Listening. Mmm. Absolutely.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Never mind. The dopey look says it all." Reaching past her, he plucked the green brush off the rack. "Merry Christmas, happy Chanukah. Can we get the hell _out_ of here?"

Buffy pouted. "I don't want that color!"

Spike slapped the plastic box into her hand anyway. "Big fucking dental tragedy. Deal with it."

Buffy's face flamed. "Stop swearing! People can hear!"

"Yet another spectacular statement of the obvious." Spike's sarcasm was so thick Buffy could spread it with a butter knife. "Were you born this uptight?"

"No," Buffy shot back, "But the incredible nosiness of complete strangers makes a girl edgy."

Spike shrugged. "Small town, pet. Whiz and it winds up in the local daily." He glanced up the aisle to where the cashier was stationed. "Oi, Lydia! Quit the rubbernecking! You're making Buffy nervous."

The older woman glanced up from her coins. "William," she replied sternly. "Are you implying that I was eavesdropping?"

"Absolutely." He swung in the other direction and addressed a bespectacled young man who'd been strenuously examining baby wipes for ten minutes. "Put those saucer eyes back in your head, Miles. Haven't you ever seen a girl before?"

Embarrassed silence reigned for a moment. Buffy could hear the soft hum of the coolers and floorboards shifting underfoot. Then, to her amazement, all the oglers suddenly launched into action at once, returning to their regularly scheduled tasks with a vengeance.

Spike made a satisfied noise. "Happy?"

"Not really," Buffy admitted. "They're only pretending. To pretend to not listen," she clarified.

"I suppose," Spike agreed mildly, but he had an unholy gleam in his eyes that made Buffy nervous. Very nervous. "Maybe we should give 'em a show."

"Maybe we shouldn't." Buffy took a hasty step back and promptly collided with the shelf, sending several cans of shaving cream clattering to the floor.

Spike ignored the racket and moved into her space with ludicrous ease. Buffy squeaked in surprise, not prepared for the beguiling weight of his hands on her waist. The tickling breath and bundled energy that comes before a kiss.

It was only a fleeting contact, lighter than a whisper. Almost friendly. But Buffy was undone by it, that brief brush of lips that banished her fears and sent embarrassment skittering away for a little while. She resurfaced a little dazed, a whole lot charmed. Wanting more. Her fingers had slipped down to encircle his thin wrists at some point, she realized, absently stroking where the skin was pale and soft as wet paper.

"Okay?" To her amazement, he sounded a little unsure, like she might still bolt when they separated. For the first time, it occurred to her that he was probably just as freaked out by this strange and irresistable attraction as she was. Maybe more so. But he wasn't the type to cut and run. Not Spike, who grabbed and wrestled with life and somehow always came out on top. 

"Yeah." Buffy licked her lips and he followed the movement with wide, hungry pupils. "Spike, I..."

He held up a hand to stop her...apology? Confession? "Look, you don't have to say anything."

"But–"

"I already know."

She stared at him, bewildered and not a little amazed. "You do, don't you?"

"S'all movin' a bit fast, yeah?" He waved a hand, encompassing them, the store, the town. "Got you good and wigged."

Buffy nodded. "A little."

Spike snorted. "I'd say a lot. Last night was a fiasco and this morning was all over the bloody map. The ladies auxiliary is in secret meeting to pick out our china pattern. You have no money. Mummy and Daddy have probably hired Columbo by now and–"

"Feel free to stop anytime," Buffy cut in archly. "I feel much better, now. Thanks bunches."

"Just makin' a point, love."

"Well, don't do it again!"

Spike sighed. "All I'm sayin' is that it's a lot to take in."

"Yeah," Buffy relented. "I get that. Next time just batter me with a blunt object, okay?"

"Done." Spike grinned, and her heart tripped a little at the miracle it worked on his sharp features. "Wanna get out of here?" His voice was very low. Smoky. Just for her.

"Spike...wait." Buffy bit her lip, not quite sure what she intended to say. Only that they weren't quite finished and, God knows, the moment might never come again. She breathed deeply of lemon polish and fresh coffee. Morning sunlight and unwashed boy, which was sweet and funky and strange. "Come here." She tugged on his belt loops. "Your button's undone."

She'd first noticed it on the road, during her initial inventory of his person. And hastily put up a mental block for her own sanity. Now, she set to work buttoning his jeans like it was the most natural thing in the world. _See, I'm not afraid. _A big, fat lie, of course, and he saw right through it, being perception guy.

"A for effort, ducks. Might work better if your hands weren't shaking." He squirmed a little. "Be careful, will ya?"

"Oh, shut up." Buffy admonished. 

"If you wanted to stick your fingers down my pants all you had to do was ask."

She ignored that and concentrated on what she was doing. Until a large hand gently closed over hers. "You've nothing to prove, pet. Not to me."

Buffy dared a glance at his face. "But I...and you..." She stammered to a halt, not sure how to finish that sentence without humiliating herself. She wanted him. God, more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life, but the black knot of fear in her belly was almost stronger. It colored everything.

Bless him, he didn't make her say it. _I suck at sex. And not in the good, oral way. _Just eyed her for a long moment. "If you want me to back off, I will."

"No!" Buffy almost yelled, earning a raised eyebrow. "I just..." She broke off, discouraged, and decided it was now or never. No more doing a Gregory Hines around the issue. "We are talking about sex, right?"

Spike leaned forward to reply to her low, embarrassed murmur. "I bloody well hope so. If this whole, twisty conversation was about your sodding toothbrush, I'll impale myself on that umbrella rack."

Buffy wondered how many years the Queen would throw at her for throttling him. "Could you be serious for one nanosecond?"

"Why? Seems like you're knotted up enough for both of us." He canted his head like she was some intriguing puzzle he was hellbent on putting together. "The way I figure it, some bloke did a number on you."

Buffy flushed, torn between mortification and relief as Spike slid the pieces into place. "Tosser couldn't hack it in the sack and blamed the lady. What a prince." He arched a curious eyebrow. "Did you ever consider the possibility that it wasn't all your fault?"

Actually, no. But it was a strangely compelling idea. Liberating and new.

Spike grunted. "Didn't think so. Take my word for it, pet. There's nothing wrong with you."

"You're just saying that."

"Right." He rolled his eyes . "I shared the couch with you because you're so repulsive." 

"It was a _pity _share!"

"That's bollocks," Spike ground out. "And you know it. I think you've been using your one bad experience to avoid contact with the male species altogether. Well, get over it. Shagging isn't always hearts and violins. I remember this one time–

"Please, stop."

"–with prodigious amounts of gin, some young ladies, and a traffic cone. I think penguins were involved."

Buffy grimaced. "How sweet. Never speak to me again."

"It's all a bit hazy."

Thank God, she thought, pasting on a big, fake smile. "Bummer. No details for the nightmare I'm going to have about this conversation."

Spike huffed impatiently. "Christ on a cracker, Buffy! Don't you get it? I'm trying to shove it through that thick skull of yours that we're not all bastards. Don Dickless needed a brain transplant and a boot up the arse. But he's gone, now. Throw that memory on the rubbish heap and move on." Spike slapped his hands together like he'd just solved her life's trauma in half a dozen sentences. "Let's get a coffee." He was already moving away.

Buffy trailed after him, knocked off balance yet again. Being with him was like riding the Roller coaster at Six Flags in a lightning storm with no belt and a drunk at the controls. "Fine. If you'd rather forage than talk to me--."

"Hush for a minute." Spike cut in, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the aisle. Buffy, a step behind, crashed into the curve of his shoulder with a muffled "Oof."

"Spike, what the–" With his head cocked like a retriever, he appeared to be listening.

"Here." He shoved a shopping basket at her. "Get whatever you want. I've gotta go." And he bolted away like a man pursued by fire vomiting dragons.

_Go? _Go where? The frozen section? Outside for a cigarette? Disneyland? Buffy was still standing there in confusion when someone almost bowled her over from behind. 

"Blondie Bear!" A blur of hair, perfume, and cleavage rushed by like Haley's comet on speed.

Buffy gaped at the retreating figure. _Blondie Bear?_ She couldn't possibly be referring to...

"Spike? Baby?"

Well now, Buffy thought. This is an interesting twist.

Her amusement pretty much dried up, though, when a crash and a yell came from the next aisle, followed by a lot of profanity. 

_IHe sounds like he's being killed. Time to mount a rescue._/I

Buffy found them in the bread section. Pinned against some whole wheat, with the blonde wrapped around him like an amorous orangutang, he was trying to extricate himself without causing a major loaf disaster. She, in the throes of a Harlequin moment, was having none of it.

"I knew you'd come back! The Psychic Friends told me we were forever. Like Joannie and Chachi."

Buffy snickered loudly, drawing Spike's attention. "Hi, there." She waved congenially. "Need help?"

"Obviously," he snapped. "Quit yapping and lend a hand."

"Aren't you going to introduce us first?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Fine. Buffy, meet Harmony." He hesitated. "My ex."

Buffy gaped at him. "How many do you have?"

TBC 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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